Your Hand in Mine
by undercover.martyn
Summary: 'We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars'. A series of vignettes about the relationship between Hawke and Fenris, as seen through the eyes of those who help define their lives.
1. Varric

**Disclaimer: Bioware own all (sadly)**

**Based very early on in Act 3. **

**Update 12/2012 – thank you to everyone who has left advice and support for this story so far – I think I've grown as an author, so I've come back to spruce up this chapter somewhat. Hope you enjoy it!**

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><p>To his right Isabela takes a deep drink from her cup, wiping her chin with the back of her hand. 'Show's beginning,' she announces, nudging at his arm with a sharp elbow and disrupting the smooth flow of his quill.<p>

Varric shuffles away from her slightly, attention not shifting from his letter. Isabela has been a relentless thorn in his side the entire day, bursting into his room in the early hours of the dawn, smelling of the sea and insisting that her own room was 'too far away'. She'd fallen asleep on his armchair before he could respond, rising only several hours later and deciding that – instead of leaving, she would pester him for hours about all the peculiarities of his possessions. This is surely another game, another distraction, but even Varric cannot ignore the Merchant's Guild forever, and this letter needs to be written.

'What's happening?' Merrill asks excitedly, turning entirely in her seat and craning her small body to peer across the crowded bar.

Isabela leans over and plants a hand on Merrill's wild hair, gently twisting the girl back around. 'Subtlety, Kitten,' she chuckles. 'Or you'll never see anything good.'

Varric, still not giving Isabela the satisfaction of looking up, barks out a laugh. 'Subtlety, Rivaini? From you? We'll never see the day.'

Isabela settles further into her seat, propping her boots up onto the table and dirtying his parchment. Varric glances at her, half exasperated, but she only smiles at him, feigning innocence. 'That's where you're wrong, my dear Varric.' Her voice is a low drawl, and she raises a tanned hand into the air. 'Even _I _can be delicate, if the situation calls for it.'

'What situation? What's happening?' Merrill twitches with the effort of not turning around. Varric casts her an indulgent smile whilst tugging his letter free from Isabela's boots.

'Basic biology, Kitten,' Isabela replies. 'Some physical attraction and unresolved tension, plus _lots_ of alcohol equals some awkward affection and plenty of fodder for Varric's stories. Volia!' she finishes with a flourish.

'Technically that would be math, Rivaini,' Varric prompts, trying to smooth out the creases of his letter. He re-reads the first line and immediately feels sick at the sycophantic address. _Oh, nug-shit. _He screws the parchment into a wad and tosses it somewhere near the fire, before drawing out some cards from his pocket and shuffling briskly. _This is something dear cousin Elmand can handle._

'Oh hush, I'm teaching,' Isabela scolds. 'Besides, why aren't you looking? It's so precious I feel nauseous.'

'You're exaggerating. Broody's only had three drinks tonight and it usually takes much more than that for him to get over his 'I hate you all, I was a slave' persona. There's no way he's drunk enough.'

Isabela inclines her head again. 'No, but _she_ is.'

Varric tilts his head slightly. It takes him a few moments to find any figures in the dim lights of the bar. Fenris is slumped on a bench, leaning against one leg he has drawn up to his chin. His face is pressed into the soft red cloth twisted around his wrist. Hawke is making her way across the room, dancing through the masses of drunk patrons to flop down beside him, tankard in hand. She says something and laughs; he doesn't move, doesn't even look at her as she finishes her drink in one deep gulp and drops her cup to the floor.

It's no wonder that people stare when they see them together, no wonder that they start; the two are a study of contrasts, almost unnatural together. With her hair escaping her braid and a simple smile spread across her glowing cheeks, Fenris is a hard line to Hawke's blurred colour, his back ramrod straight and his lips thinned.

Merrill, who has chanced a quick glimpse, seems bemused. 'I don't understand. Nothing's happening.'

Isabela laughs, a loud, boisterous sound that drew a few stares. '_Everything's_ happening, Kitten, you just have to look closer to see it.'

Varric shakes his head slightly, amused. 'No way, Rivani. He won't try anything if he's sober. Ancestors, he probably won't even try anything if he's pissed.' They're easy words to say, but they pull at unpleasant and fresh wounds, only a few months old– a stack of broken wine bottles staining a cracked, Hightown floor; green eyes, bloodshot, dilated, looking right through him. A rumbling voice, saying only 'It never should have happened' in response to hours and hours of Varric's questions and threats. Varric shakes his head, before drinking deeply. Hard memories, ones he does not wish to be preserved.

Isabela leans forward conspiratorially, eyes sparking in the candle light. 'But _you _weren't with them today. You didn't see the little looks he kept shooting her, all desperate and adoring.' She sucks in a deep breath, lightly clapping her hands together. 'Ooh, it was delicious.'

'I still say he hasn't got the stones,' Varric replies, trying to repress the strains of ugly anger in his words. 'Care to raise the stakes? ' he adds, forcing his voice to be light as he turns a sovereign over in his fingers.

Isabela follows the motion with surprisingly focused eyes and gives him a smooth wink. 'Easiest coin I'll ever make, sweet thing.'

'Look what's happening now!' Merrill gasps, her voice high and breathy.

Abandoning any attempts to remain inconspicuous, they all quickly resume their voyeurism. Varric immediately swears and Isabela shoots him a predatory grin. Fenris has slid his hand down into the tight space between him and Hawke. His free hand, gauntlets and all, is digging into the bottom of the bench, splintering the word. He appears to be muttering something to himself. Hawke, eyes drowsy with wine, seems ignorant beside him, head lolling slightly with the weight of a half sleep.

Isabela pokes at Varric with a determined finger, still not taking her eyes from the scene unfolding before them. 'I'll take that sovereign please. You can cheer yourself up by thinking about how often you can retell this story.' Her hand slips into his pocket to take her coin.

Varric shakes his head. 'Sadly, this will never do, Rivaini. People don't want to hear about this kind of fumbling. They want public declarations of love and passionate embraces. Not hand holding.'

It's true. Hawke, larger than life, all powerful mage, storming Hightown with her wit and Fereldan 'charm'. That is the Hawke he paints for people; that is the Hawke he reveals. She who is wild, a force of nature crackling in the storm, parting seas.

Because that is the only Hawke they deserve to know. They don't deserve the one who follows Isabela to every ridiculous hat shop in Lowtown, or the one who spends an entire day wearing the crown of flowers that Daisy made. Not the Hawke who buys Orana a pretty dress, nor the one who rolls down Sundermount hills with her mabari. Not the Hawke who snorts when she laughs, and most certainly not the Hawke whom Varric sometimes sees staring out across the sea, back to Fereldan, with a expression so achingly _sad_ that he has to look away.

But it's more than that. The Hawke of the stories is the Hawke that the people of Kirkwall _need_. They need the Champion, the slayer of Quanri and the only person in the city brave enough to step in between Meredith and Orsino. They cannot hear about how Hawke pressed her face against the stones of the Deep Roads in a silent prayer; or how she screamed in agony last month when Anders had to reset her dislocated shoulder. These are exposures, flaws, that end the fiction and make her human. Stories can't bleed or cry.

And worse still is to hear of this painfully stuttered romance. Two untamed, beautiful outcasts, caught in a grip of lust – that is desirable, ethereal. But anything deeper than base passion has no place in his stories.

Their first reunion after _that _night was not the stuff of stories. Varric was there for _that_, and it was bloody awkward. Traipsing around the Wounded Coast, looking for raiders and finding nothing for hours except awful, prickly silence. It was almost a blessed relief when they were finally attacked, if not to end the seemingly constant feeling of suffocation. But half way through the fight Hawke and Fenris – who had once fought together as if it were easier than breathing – had slammed into one another, and Hawke had half jumped out of her skin. For a moment it was almost amusing – before the raider's blade had sunk into the soft flesh of her shoulder, and the sand was suddenly spotted with the vivid pulse of red blood.

They'd dispatched the rest of the raiders quickly after that (Fenris with a sudden, brutal determination that almost frightened Varric). Still, the wound was deep enough that Hawke, useless as ever with healing magic, decided that they'd finish the job tomorrow because she needed to see Anders. And then Rivani had made a bad joke about pleasure and pain, which ended with the elf storming home and Hawke snapping at Isabela for the first time in years. Defeated, and miserable, they had stumbled home and parted ways, all locked in thought.

'But they're so cute,' Merrill whispers, breaking Varric away from the labyrinth of his own memories.

Across the bar, Fenris seems to be struggling, his finger shaking with a repressed palsy. His eyes are closed, tight – and then suddenly he jerks his hand so slightly that some of his fingers pass through Hawke's.

Hawke shoots up in her seat, not able to stop herself from glancing at their two hands. She is careful not to look at Fenris though, who has his teeth clenched and a muscle leaping in his jaw. He is ignoring her entirely, as if his hand is acting outside of his control and he is naught but a reluctant bystander to the whole affair.

As unsteady as she is in her intoxicated haze, it is with a surprising firmness that Hawke further interlaces her fingers with his.

The change in his demeanour is immediate. He snaps his head as far as possible away from her and somehow manages to become even more rigid. His knuckles turn white as he grips her hand and a faint pinkness creeps up his tanned neck and cheekbones. Hawke is now mirroring him, deliberately facing away – even if it meant staring at the wall – and turning a distinct shade of red.

Merrill giggles quietly, leaning against Isabela. 'Oh look at lethallan. She looks like a halla ready to bolt!'

'And I think Broody's only a few copper marigolds off being worse at this than Aveline,' Varric adds, feeling amusement sinking into his bones. Hawke may be his greatest legend, but it doesn't mean she's not hilariously awkward to observe at times.

As they watch on, Hawke lowers her head to Fenris' shoulder, as if approaching a trapped animal. Her bright eyes flutter shut. There is no denying the dark flush on Fenris' face any longer – it is the same colour as the worn scarf tied around his wrist. He takes a deep, rattling breath before finally loosing the stiff rigor of his body and slumping into the contact. His tense eyes relax – the expression of his face is not peace, but as close as Varric has ever seen it. Their hands remain threaded together.

Isabela sighs softly. 'They're both as stupid as one another. How much longer is it going to be before they just stop fighting it? I don't think I can handle much more of this pining.' Her voice may seem light, but there's a heaviness behind the usual lilt, and when Varric look round she is drumming her ringed fingers against the table in agitation.

Merrill is having difficulty tearing her gaze away. 'I just don't understand them,' she admits, a sadness piercing her voice. 'They could make each other so happy.'

Varric shoots her an understanding smile, patting her small hand. 'That's people, Daisy. Too slow or scared to be happy. Even if it's staring them right in the face.' He pauses to consider. 'Or if it's following you around wearing your family crest like a chastity belt.'

'But how does it all end Varric? Is it a happy story or not?'

For once Varric can't think of an answer. He could only shrug and say, 'This is Hawke and Broody's story, Daisy. We can only watch and hope.'

There were so many times he imagined an ending, so many conclusions and resolutions ignored, dismissed. When Hawke, newly crowned Champion, lay bleeding to death in the Viscount's Keep, it was a time for declarations of love. Or after her mother' death, when her skin was pale and cool as ice and her eyes even colder – that was when she should have been warmed, brought alive by a hand to take hers. Ancestors, Varric has no desire for a dramatic story – it should have ended _that_ night, with both of them happy, truly happy, perhaps for the first time in their rotten, hard lives.

But this is not his story. Varric cannot tell when this limbo will be broken – _if _it will be broken. And he can't look away, can't stop watching every move, every step of the strained, hopeful dance they are caught in.

xxx

Several hours later, as Merrill conveniently wins enough money to pay for her weekly shop, Fenris passes by their table and out into the night, a half sleeping Hawke tucked into her chest.

Varric sniggers to himself. 'I don't think he even saw us. Andraste's dimples, Broody is _whipped_.'

'Do you think anything…interesting…will happen tonight?' Isabela purrs as the bar door closes, her eyes alight once more with her usual amusement.

'Any what?' Merrill repeats, before being distracted by another miraculous win.

'Of course not,' Varric mutters in an aside to Isabela, as he begins to collect up the card. 'Broody will be a complete gentleman and take her home to Bodhan, before going back to his mansion and getting absolutely pissed. And then he'll spend all of tomorrow sullen and hung-over. Bianca's sure of it. What fun for us to deal with.'

Varric doesn't say anything more – he may have suspicions, may have hopes, but he knows that their place is in his fictions, not this world. And in so many ways, Varric cannot help but think that it is one story that is more beautiful in motion than in his own words. Strangely, something as small as holding hands feels too intimate to recreate. Hawke is his greatest story, but the myth is nothing compared to the woman who laughs and cries and loves. And Varric – like everyone, like the Maker himself – will simply have to wait to see how it all ends.


	2. Cullen

In a review shadowsilv3r mentioned the possbility of looking more at Hawke and Fenris' relationship through the eyes of the other companions. I had intended the piece as a one shot, but this idea got me thinking. So I'm hoping to add a few more pieces from various times during DA II, through the eyes of NPCs as well as teammates. This one takes place towards the end of Act I.

Disclaimer: Bioware owns all (sadly)

Kirkwall is alive with words, buzzing tongues and gestures, hushed tones and loud accusations, those seeking to define the hawke. Dog Lord, hero, smuggler, martyr, vigilante, scum, temptress.

Cullen favours 'bold'.

Whenever she enters the Gallows, her lips twitch in a subconscious smirk of defiance; her staff clicks against the stone floor and past the watching templars; she chatters endlessly at the mage goods stall, in spite of the blank responses of the tranquil vendors. Her walk is easy, her shoulders strong, her gaze firm. The woman seems to care, or know, nothing of danger. She does not fear him, shockingly, despite using her magic furiously and beautifully when saving him from Wilhelm. She says a brief hello whenever she passes, as if to completely dismiss the possibility that he may report her. Nothing seems to press heavily on her mind.

Her easy calm changes with the elf. The first time Hawke brings him to the Gallows, they begin an argument in the middle of the square. Cullen is too far away to hear what they are saying, but both gesture emphatically enough for him to make an adequate approximation. When their voices begin to escalate further, the red headed guardswoman steps in and they abruptly move on. Hawke's face is flushed and tight in a way which he has not seen before, and she fails to notice him as she storms past.

The elf also reveals a great deal, as apathetic as he may seem to one who does not look closely. Cullen also remembers him from the rescue. After all, he was hard to miss, with the bright hair and the strange mark standing out sharply from the faded green of outer Kirkwall. But now, as the visits to the Gallows persist, Cullen sees beyond. He sees the harsh tension of the elf's face, the challenges of his eyes and the rigor of his body. Cullen knows this desperate fear and rage, recognises it from his own reflection in the broken Circle Tower. Those marks run deeper than any lyrium.

Time passes, in its dull march, and Cullen sees the relationship evolve, watching as he always does. The younger recruits, they think that being a Templar is about the shiny armour and the hard training. But Cullen knows that the most important thing he does is to be still and observe. Fereldan taught him that, thought him the things that people say when their mouths are still. So he sees when the elf begins to walk in time with Hawke's stride, when he shoots her back quick glances. He notices how his gaze shifts from her staff to her hair, or the curve of her neck. When Hawke relaxes, the elf tenses, his crouch becoming more defensive; when she turns to him he shifts his weight from foot to foot. His eyes narrow when she glances his way but soften when her gaze has moved on, in an endless dance punctuated with the sharp arguments that flare up between them.

The elf does not like him either, and one does not have to be a genius to deduce that. Whereas Hawke will greet him with an open smile, the kind which makes him quell a ridiculous impulse to blush, there is always a dangerous glint in the elf's eye. There is perhaps a ghost of jealousy there, but the anger comes from something deeper. From fear. Whenever Cullen speaks with Hawke, the elf's eyes watch his hands and his stance, as if expecting him to smite her at any moment. There is a challenge in those hard, green eyes, as if daring him to try and lay a finger on her. Hawke's unrestrained nature may not cause her worry, but it keeps the elf as tense as a bow.

They are opposites in every way.

Yet Cullen learns the most when he does not intend to. It is early one morning, the soft pink light of dawn creeping over the Gallows. He is sitting on his balcony outside of his quarters, flicking through some reports but enjoying the warmth of the sun and the low hum of the people below. He is startled when the stillness is finally broken, by a boisterous cheer from the market. He glances over the railings to see the unmistakeable figure of Hawke, moving away from Solivitus' shop, a small pouch of coins in her hand. The dwarf walks at her side, smiling widely. Her shadow, the elf, follows behind, his face impassive.

He can just make out her words – _Fifty sovereigns! Fifty, Varric! With this we're set _– before she begins to spin in what Cullen can only assume to be an attempt at dancing. The dwarf starts to laugh aloud at this, and Cullen cannot fight a small smirk. So distracted is he with the spectacle she is creating – and the disgruntled faces of the other shoppers – he barely notices the pouch as it flies from her hands and clatters to the Gallows floor.

The elf does, however. Quick as a flash, he darts to the ground and seizes it up. He pauses for a moment, before offering it back to Hawke, his face guarded.

She stops her dancing long enough to beam at him. _Thanks Fenris_ Cullen thinks she says. _That's almost sweet. Will you miss me when I'm gone?_

Her words are teasing, but Cullen sees the flash of…of something that passes the elf's face, before he screws his features into a scowl and bites out a retort. _Miss your chaos? Hardly. _

But his hand lingers as Hawke reaches out and plucks the money back, his fingers curling as if seeking contact. He holds on for a moment longer than necessary, before suddenly letting go when Hawke shoots him a confused glance. When she moves past he quickly draws his arm back to his side, flexing the muscles. For a moment he stands, a lonely figure in the sea of shoppers, before shaking his hand out and following after her.

Cullen watches their figures retreat, wondering at the strange reaction. For a moment, he is worried for Hawke, worried about what she is planning that has offset her shadow so. But after time these thoughts pass, and he resumes his watching of the lives that pass before him. Hawke is too bold, that is clear; but Cullen knows he is not the only one who is watching her.


	3. Aveline

**Disclaimer: Bioware own all (sadly).**

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><p>When the music starts Aveline immediately laughs and shakes her head. It is a dance she knows well – played at every Fereldan festival, the tune brings back flashing memories of people stomping around vigorously in a number of different barns. For most it is an easy dance to learn, full of energy and unrestrained movement. <em>Very Fereldan indeed<em>.

Sadly, it's a skill she has never quite acquired. Her dancing capabilities, limited at best, are mannered and deliberate, the one area in which she is closer to her Orleasian roots. Any attempts at Fereldan folk dancing seem to involve a great deal more flailing than she is comfortable with.

So Aveline is all too happy to kiss Donnic softly on the cheek and send him off to dance with one of his nieces. The wedding dress is weighing her down more than any armour ever could, and she's happy to be off of her feet and the sadistic shoes she has been bullied into wearing.

But across the room, Hawke has leapt to her feet. Aveline cannot help but shoot an indulgent smile her way. The last few years, for all the wealth and the fame, have worn at her. That bright, young girl Aveline first met has been lost, buried under all the horror Kirkwall has thrust her into. It is rare for the Hawke she knew to resurface, and these are the moments that Aveline holds close.

She looks beautiful tonight, in a striking red dress that floats gently around her ankles. For once she's managed to tame her hair back, so it's impossible to miss the slow joy that spreads across her face. For a moment she glances in Fenris' direction, but he is slumped in a chair playing with an empty bottle of wine. So instead Hawke reaches out and seizes Anders' arm, dragging her from his own chair and into the mass of dancers in the middle of the room.

For someone who spent so much time on the run, Anders turns out to be shockingly proficient at dancing. The music is fast and alive; the two spin together, easy laughter on their faces. The march passes faster and they link arms, chanting loudly and off key. Aveline cannot help but wonder if Anders has finally conquered his spirit and has had something to drink (it is clear that Hawke has). The usual strain of his face has been lifted. Whenever he is with Hawke he is softer, more patient with his temper, and Aveline cannot help but wonder if there is something _more_ between the two of them.

But these thoughts are immediately tempered as she turns her gaze back to where Fenris is sitting. Despite the persistent efforts of Varric and Hawke to have him wear boots and something other than his armour, he still seems out of place. For all the wine he has had, his gaze is not clouded, but sharper. And fixed decidedly on the wild abandon of Hawke's attempt to dance.

It is not just jealousy on his face, although that is potent enough. There's a wistfulness there, as if the wedding is a thousand miles away from him, and he is watching, unable to reach out and take what he wants. With a sharp spike of understanding, Aveline knows what it is about him that is upsetting her. She spent three years like that, in her office, watching as the things she wanted passed by the doorway.

A part of her wonders if she would have stayed that way if not for Hawke.

Her mind flashes back to Fenris' words before that disastrous patrol with Donnic – 'you're squandering something you don't understand!' The hypocrite. The utter hypocrite.

It's entirely possible that she's drunk too much, but for a moment there only seems to be one thing that she can possibly do. It was a friend who made it possible for her standing here in this ridiculous gown and now it's Fenris' turn.

The wedding dress may make her walk slightly less intimidating, but nonetheless he glances up with something almost like anxiety when he notices her heading towards him, face set and determined. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but she doesn't give him a chance.

Blowing some of the hair from her face – how on earth does Hawke get around with it flying about all the time? – she barks out, 'Why are you just sitting over here on your own?' She continues to plough on before he can answer; 'because you're a coward. Do you want to watch Anders swoop in and romance her? The only one who's stopping you being together is _you_ – so how about you grow a pair and go ask her to dance?'

An absent part of her thinks that Isabela will be proud of her. She misses the slattern, though she'd never admit it, and it feels wrong to have this wedding while she's still gone.

For a moment Fenris openly gapes at her, as if he cannot believe the audacity of what she is saying. There is a red flush of anger on his face, but he is still and silent before her. For years they have all – well, with the exception of Anders' and some snide comments – danced around the elephant in the room. Not today. Today Aveline is happy, and dammit everyone else will be too.

'Move' she tells him, shoving at his chair. He stands up instantly, as if dazed, and pauses for a moment before stiffly walking over to where Hawke and Anders are dancing, causing other dancers to scatter. There are a few confused glances cast his way, but they don't seem to deter him. This is something he has wanted for some time and it seems that Aveline has finally stripped away the excuses he placated himself with.

As he draws nearer to the dancing couple, the last few beats of the dance play out. Anders spins Hawke away from him, and she twirls once, twice –

- before coming up short in front of Fenris. For a moment they stand staring at each other, Hawke breathing heavily and hair falling down. Suddenly, Fenris' hand shoots up between them, and inclines itself towards Hawke. Aveline can see the muscles of his jaw flex, as Hawke simply stands there, stunned. Slowly, her own fingers stretch out and wrap around his hand. She raises her chin to look him in the eye. She winks.

It is Fenris who pulls her close as a softer song begins, with a new confidence that makes Aveline laugh. Anders – thankfully not glowing – stands disgruntled, until an amused Varric wanders over and pulls him away.

'May I?'

Aveline is startled by the question and is torn from the sight of her friends by Donnic appearing at her side. Fenris and Hawke are as stubborn and wilful and proud as each other; all she can do is push them together and hope. But now her husband is before her, and this is their time.

Several songs later, she catches sight of them, still moving together, over Donnic's shoulder. Hawke's eyes are closed, her face tucked into Fenris' shoulder. But his are wide open, watching his own hand trace small patterns into the soft material of Hawke's dress.


	4. Isabela

**Disclaimer: Bioware owns all**

**This oneshot is based just after the Battle for the Keep. I don't know about you, but I think Hawke brushes off being impaled with a giant sword a bit too easily :P**

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><p>Fenris is the one who catches her, when she suddenly crumbles. His arms wrap around her waist and then his knees bend so they slump on the floor. From his lap she stares up at his face, chest rattling as she tries to draw air into her damaged lungs. Fenris' hands push away her hair from the sweaty sheen of her face and then his shaking fingers stroke at her skin, tentatively, as if she could break.<p>

She has always been so pale – it's something Isabela has teased her mercifully about – but now her skin looks almost grey and harsh blue veins are blossoming underneath its surface. Anders is already beside them, throwing himself on the floor and pressing his hands against the ugly wound seeping at her side. Hawke's breath catches as her skin begins to knit itself back together, her uninjured and bloodied hand curling into a fist until Fenris pries it open and links their fingers together. He is speaking to her, in a breathless and impossibly angry voice; cursing her for her rashness, her inability to keep her guard up, her damned selflessness. Hawke actually attempts a laugh at his vitriol, and this spurs him into a flood of violent curses which don't match the gentle way his thumb strokes her hand.

Anders is panicking. Hard as he tries to hide it, Isabela can see it in the harsh furrow of his brow and how he reaches into his coat to down a small lyrium potion. It's a deep wound, worse than Isabela thought, and it doesn't hold together for longer than a few moments, despite Anders' best efforts. 'I need my supplies!' he barks to no one in particular, and immediately Aveline is gone, a blur of grey armour and bright hair out of the Keep. Anders fumbles in his coat for something else, continuing without raising his head. 'Elf, I need you to keep this wound compressed while I sought out Hawke's leg.'

It is several moments later before Fenris moves, slowly turning away from Hawke's ashen face. He glances at her side, for the first time, Isabela realises – he sees the blood and the ragged tears on her skin, the marks that will clearly scar –

'Fenris!' Anders snaps, and slowly the elf blinks and looks up at the mage. For once there is no snarl, no retort, no disdain, but only a disbelief that this is happening. 'Fenris, I need you to keep the wound compressed. Can you do that for me?' Anders says, distinctly and firmly.

Fenris nods, his mouth open slightly as he inhales unevenly. He takes Anders' place, holding his hands against her bloodied side. Isabela can see him swallow as hot crimson seeps between the cracks of his fingers.

Finally, Anders finds what he is looking for, producing a small and battered leaf which he holds out to Hawke. 'I'm going to need you to take this,' he tells her. 'It will put you to sleep –' Hawke moans at that, but Anders presses on '–because this is not going to be pleasant. It'll only be for a few hours.'

'I'm afraid,' Hawke whispers, and the confession rocks Isabela back on her heels. 'I'm afraid I won't wake up.' This is a woman who waves her staff in front of templars, who squares up to the quanri, who faced off a demented rock wraith in an underground tomb and then made crappy puns until they reached the surface. She is Hawke, and she is their leader, but she cannot be afraid.

Fenris jars his head to face her; he tries to answer – once, twice – but makes no sound. It is Anders who assures her; 'You will be fine. I promise Hawke. But for that to happen, I need you to take this for me. You need to trust me, alright?'

A few beats and Hawke nods, opening her mouth obediently for Anders to feed her the small leaf. Her eyes flutter to Fenris' as she chews. He cannot meet her gaze; as he turns away he screws his eyes shut and for an awful, _awful _moment Isabela thinks he is going to cry.

Nobody has ever made her feel worthless. Not the names, not the roaming lovers, not her husband, or her mother. But here, here in this moment, she is nothing. She is nothing, and Hawke is everything; everything to everyone, all of them desperate to save her. She is the one who makes them _more_, she is the one who is willing to die for them, and Isabela may have let her do that today.

'Hawke' she says. _I am sorry_, she thinks. But she cannot say that aloud, because that is a recognition; a recognition that something is wrong with Hawke, that this could change everything. 'Hawke,' she repeats, dropping to her knees and taking her cold hand in her own.

Hawke's smile is thin and tight, a cut welling up on her lip. When she laughs it is a choked and moist sound, small flecks of blood dotting across her white face. Her eyes are half lidded as she stares at Isabela, and murmurs, 'Stab first, ask questions later?'

Isabela can't help the strangled laugh that bursts out of her. 'Maybe it's not better this way,' she manages, although the words stick in her throat.

Without warning, Hawke's hand slips out of hers and falls woodenly to the floor. The world bends for a moment and a vicious 'No!' rips itself from Fenris' throat. But Anders is shouting that the sedative has taken affect and that they're running out of time. Instead of waiting for Aveline, they need to move Hawke to Darktown. Fenris, with a gentleness that Isabela never would have believed of him, lifts her from the ground, curling her head to rest against his neck and keeping her wound undisturbed.

As they leave the Keep and sprint down the stairs, Isabela sees one of Fenris' hands comes up to cup Hawke's cheek, staining her pale skin with harsh red. And as quiet as he may be, Isabela can hear the words he is whispering, as loud as if he were shouting them. All she knows is the roaring of blood in her ears, and his stuttered mantra 'Not yet. Please not yet. I'm not ready.'

For days and weeks and months, whenever Isabela closes her eyes all she can see is Fenris' hands, slick with Hawke's blood and stroking her unconscious face, as he begs her not to leave him.


	5. Anders

**Disclamed: Bioware owns all. Sorry this took a little while – university decided to get very busy very quickly! This is set at the Finale of the game, during the goodbyes at the Gallows.**

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><p>It's strange really. For years, Anders has been convinced that what drives him, what gives him the strength to do what no one else will, is the justice he carries and the strength of his own will. But in this moment, standing still before her, wishing she would take her hands away from her face –in case this is the last time he ever sees her – he realises that it was always Hawke. Just Hawke and those beautiful eyes of hers – bright with laughter, bloodshot with tears, clouded in pain, hard with courage.<p>

He imagines those eyes, endlessly staring and glassy, pressed against the cold floor of the Gallows.

Before he can linker on that thought – that awful, _awful_ thought – Hawke emerges from the prison of her hands. He's not sure what he expects – most likely anger. After the explosion she had looked like she wanted to hit him, her face pale with rage and her hands shaking. He was amazed she didn't gut him like her pet elf suggested.

Now though – now that anger is gone. Or at least buried. Hawke's expression is far worse; it is one of pity. She is looking at him with those wide eyes and the rueful twist of her mouth which she usually reserves for Lowtown beggars and lyrium addled templars.

_Don't look at me like that_ he wants to shout. But he cannot say anything. His mouth won't work. Instead he drops his gaze, because he doesn't want his last memories of her to be that expression. Because he knows that Hawke now believes him to be a broken man.

She doesn't say anything. Not immediately anyway. Slowly, as if he were an animal that needs taming, her hand reaches out and curves against his gaunt cheek. He cannot help but lean into her palm. Warm and soft, comforting. Nobody has touched him like this for nearly a decade, and the simple act of intimacy nearly brings him to tears. It is almost too easy to imagine that they are not in the Gallows, but her estate. Or better yet, in a home of their own. And in a moment, she will press her lips against his.

The illusion shatters as Hawke speaks, her voice thick with tears. 'Maker bless you, Anders. You were a good man.'

For a second he is breathless – fighting Justice's anger at her words, fighting his torn impulses to hug her to his chest or defend himself one last time. It is too much, and he almost misses her hand falling from his face. 'I hope you find peace. But it's time for us to say goodbye.'

When she turns away, however, he regains control. He lunges out and seizes her wrist. From the corner of his vision he makes out a sharp movement across the court, someone crouching into an aggressive stance, but he is masochistic enough to do anything to see Hawke's face one last time. There are too many words in his mind, whirling, spiralling, but he can't order them, can't give them any meaning. It occurs to him that this is because there is only one thing he can say, as woefully inadequate as it is.

'Goodbye Hawke.' Her high cheekbones, the curve of her neck, her scared nose, her small ears…and those beautiful eyes, made old before her time. 'Live well.'

His fingers uncurl around her wrist. And she is gone.

He cannot help but watch them. The knowledge that these may be his last few minutes on this earth – that he should be preparing or the fight of his life – is not enough for him to look away.

Their foreheads are pressed together, their mouths moving as they whisper to each other in the shared air between them. One of Fenris' hands is stroking through Hawke's hair, slow and steady, a ritual. The other is tracing a pattern on her shoulder, as if to remind himself – if only for this moment – that she is here, here with him. Her own hands are trapped in the little space between them, following the tattoo patterns that circle around his neck. She leans forward and presses her lips against the side of his mouth.

He pulls back, his own hands coming up to cradle her face and brush her blood soaked hair back. His lips trace the contours of her face, slowly, reverent. He finishes with a kiss on her forehead, and Anders can see Fenris' eyes, clenched shut, as if in pain. Suddenly they open.

From over Hawke's head, his gaze is murderous, boring into him. There is a promise there – that if anything, _anything_, happens to her, Anders will pay in blood. But it is broken as Hawke's hands brush against his ear and his gaze returns to her. In seconds, from hardened warrior, to fragile, vulnerable affection – _love_, a part of his mind admits as the rest rejects the possibility.

Anders cannot see anymore. His eyes flutter closed. In the back of his mind Justice questions the sudden lethargy that creeps into his bones. He cannot understand.

There was a time when the sight of them made his blood boil. Every time Fenris reached out and held her hand, every time he brushed back her hair, every casual touch he took – Anders had burned. He was unworthy of her, because he had _left_, left her hollow and cold. And when Hawke had offered Fenris a smile, kissed his check, burrowed her head into the curve of his neck, Anders had wondered why. Why she wanted him when he had caused so much pain.

But now, the whispers of past rage are silent. He is just tired – so, so tired – and caught in the knowledge that no matter what happens next, this is a nightmare of his own doing. Maybe they will die, maybe they will live, but either way no one will ever show him a kindness again. No more of Varric's stories, no more ridiculous innuendo from Isabela, or enchantment soup from Sandal or Wicked Grace in the Hanged Man or stomping around the Wounded Coast. And most painfully, no more Hawke, brushing his hair from his face and telling him he needs to rest. No more.

He turns to face the opening to the Gallows. The time has come, shockingly fast, and he is struck with the frantic realization that he is not _ready_. But there is nothing he can do, nothing but draw his staff from his back, listen to the sounds of the door being broken down and face his fate.

Hawke and Fenris stand in front of him, hands locked together. They stay that way, even as door breaks down, and the templars come. Until the first wave of the attack tears them apart.

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><p><strong>A few people have asked me about a Carver POV; I already have something planned for him, but I was wondering if there were any other characters people would like to hear from? <strong>


	6. Corff

**Disclaimer: Bioware owns all **

**Thank you so much for the reviews last chapter; I already had a piece from Donnic's perspective planned, but I never would have thought of Jethan – so thank you to Enchanter T.I.M**

**Apologies for a bit of language in this piece (I think it's necessary for the voice); this oneshot is set pretty early on in Act One, with the team getting together.**

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><p>Corff shouldn't be surprised really. Hawke always brings in the <em>weird<em> ones. He knew the minute she first banged into his bar that she was a problem. One of the less…honourable…patrons had decided to reach out and cop a feel. Hawke had broken his nose and Corff hasn't seen the bastard since. Of all people, the one who brought her in was the dwarf, who had laughed all the way up to his room after Hawke grimaced and wiped her bloodied hand on her robe. He's another one who's more trouble than he's worth. Corff only lets him stay because of the crowds he draws in with his ridiculous stories – although some of them are pretty good.

After that, they're in the tavern nearly every night, claiming the corner in the very back. It's not long before their little group starts to grow and Maker do they get some stares. Her brother's a grumpy sod who usually stays sullen and quiet (although he buys a lot of ale, so he's fine in Corff's book). Then there's the guy who wears a monstrosity of a coat, as if he's trekking through Sundermount. He never orders anything more than water. Stingy bastard. They also have a little Dalish girl who's managed to trip over every single one of his floorboards. But perhaps the biggest shock is Isabela; Corff's never known the pirate stick around anyone for very long, but she seems right at home resting her arm on the dwarf's head and prodding people with Hawke's staff for her own amusement. Even the bloody Captain of the Guard comes in sometimes (and boy, does that make his customers sweat).

So he isn't startled when Hawke barrels in one night, followed by a new, bemused elf. Still, even by Hawke's standards, this one is bloody mental. The hair, the tattoos…the ruddy greatsword. Corff shakes his head sagely as they make their way over to the already gathered group. _It'll all end in tears. _

'Hawke!' Varric's voice booms out across the bar; then, more quietly and with a hint of amusement, 'and the Wolf.'

'My name,' the stranger grits out, 'is Fenris.'

The dwarf is not fazed. 'You'll quickly realise that names mean little to me…Broody.'

Hawke's laugh rings out at that. It's an unrestrained kind of laugh that has everyone in the room glance her way. Unbothered, or unaware of the attention, Hawke tosses her hair back and slides into a chair, 'Be nice to the newbie. It's been a while since we've got some fresh meat.' There is a short pause before she speaks again. 'Well come on then, sit down.'

Corff pretends to be wiping down a glass as he glances their way. The elf is still standing, clearly startled. The poor, awkward bugger. Meanwhile, Hawke's somewhat limited patience seems to have run its course and she is dramatically gesturing towards another free seat. Warily, the elf lowers himself down, as stiff as a bleeding corpse. His screws up his face as Isabela leans across to leer at him, and Corff can't stop his derisive snort. Immediately the elf wipes his head in his direction and Corff speedily begins to clean the counter instead.

Thankfully, a crowd moves into the Hanged Man at that point and Corff busies himself with recounting all the daft things he's heard so far this week. He's occupied for some time, but when the bar calms down slightly he is able to hear Varric explaining the final rules of Wicked Grace.

'I'm so confused!' the little Dalish girl confesses, as the cards are dealt out. 'What does it mean if you have a card with an upside down serpent?'

'It means you're holding the cards wrong, kitten,' Isabela smoothly interjects. 'Don't worry, I'll play with you this time. We can clean these guys out.'

'I wouldn't be too sure of that…no matter how many cards you have stuffed down who knows where,' Hawke replies, drumming her cards on the table. Without glancing at him, she extends a challenge, her voice unconvincingly casual; 'Think you can keep up, Fenris? Or do you need some help too?'

'I'm game,' the elf replies, his voice determined. He levels his gaze at Hawke, as she hides her slow smirk behind the cards she holds close to her face.

'What'll you be having, Broody?'

It's been hours; most of the other patrons have left or are happily snoring at their retrospective tables. But at the back of the Hanged Man the games go on and on. Unsurprisingly, Isabela has won several hands with the little Dalish girl. Hawke has also done surprisingly well, prompting Varric to grumble over his unusually modest winnings. Neither the new elf nor the man in the feathers have won any games. Now Norah is circling around this, reminding them in her special, subtle way, to have more to drink or get the hell out.

The elf considers. 'Wine. Aggreggio, if you have it,' he adds, with a sudden burst of inspiration. At the sight of Norah's disgruntled and confused face he amends his answer. 'Any wine then,' he mutters, seemingly disappointed.

'Wine?' It's the feathered man, disdain in his voice.

'Let him drink what he likes, Anders,' Hawke says, her usual smirk in place. 'It's got to be hard to lose this many games in a row.'

If there's one Corff has learnt as a barkeep, it's what a proud man will do in the face of taunts. The warning signs are in the tightening of the elf's jaw, the anger in his voice as he replies. 'Overconfidence will get you nowhere.'

But Corff has come to know Hawke. She's leaning back in her seat, lounging really, but there's that sharp, almost predatory gleam in her eye. She's bored, and willing to poke the tiger if it'll give her some amusement. 'Elf, you may be handy with that sword of yours, but you're too angry and obvious to hide anything on that pretty face of yours.' Hawke smiles despite the redness creeping up the elf's face and the way his gauntlets are scratching at the table. She also ignores the disgruntled noise the feathered man makes. 'But by all means, do your worst.'

Varric shuffles.

Hawke has reclined even further back in her seat, exaggerating a yawn as she flicks through her faded cards. 'Well, Isabela's run out of her cheat cards by now, Varric's got nugshit – you need to sort that tell of yours out – and Anders hasn't got a clue what he's doing. This game is mine.'

'I hope you haven't forgotten me.' The elf's voice is low, cutting across the sound of the others folding (and in some cases cursing).

Hawke glances at him with something akin to surprise. 'You still want to try this? You're awful. _Really _awful. Worse than Anders –' she ignores the indignant squawk beside her '– so why don't you just tuck your tail between your legs and save your money? It's only your first time.'

His face is stone. Unmovable. Unyielding. 'Show me your hand, Hawke.'

She shrugs her shoulders and tosses her cards onto the table, with a soft 'As you wish'. Corff whistles to himself. A serpent, a griffon, a bear and a mabari. Quite the hand. The elf is mightily screwed.

He doesn't seem to know it though. He quirks an eyebrow instead; then, slowly, deliberately, he lays down his cards. 'Four serpents. Maybe you ought to worry about your own pretty face?' he rumbles, triumph clear in his voice.

There is a second of silence, and then Isabela throws her head back and roars with laughter. It takes Corff a moment to realise he is joining her, and he immediately begins to clean the counter to stop himself. Yet he can still hear the aftermath of the elf's win behind him. Varric's booming laugh, the elf girl's high giggle – even grumpy ass feathers manages a chuckle as he tells Hawke to close her mouth But is some time before the women herself speaks, and when she does the usual mischief in her voice gone. 'How the hell did you manage that?'

Corff can almost hear the shrug in the elf's voice. 'As if I know.'

Hawke still looks shocked as she swaggers up to the bar a few minutes later, impressively steady given all the ale she's had. 'We've got a good one, haven't we Corff?' she says conversationally, leaning against his counter and gesturing for another drink. Her eyes are distant – not manic like normal, but contemplating. The customary easy lilt of her mouth is gone, replaced with…_something_. Hell if Corff knows what it is.

He glances over at her table, one last time. The elf had brought his glass to his mouth, but Corff can just about make out the small upturn of his lips.

'I'd expect nothing less from you, Hawke,' he admits.

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><p><strong>Sorry this update took a little longer than usual. University was feeling petulant after being ignored, so it decided to beat me around the head with work. Thankfully it's calmed down now and I should be updating on a more regular basis. <strong>


	7. Leandra

**Disclaimer: Bioware owns all**

**Donnic piece IS on its way, but the idea of a Leandra oneshot got into my head and took over. This is the result! Apologies for slightly limited Fenris, but the Hawke family tends to demand that they take front stage. Also, sorry it took a little bit longer, but Leandra just kept TALKING and this ended up longer than normal!**

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><p>Leandra is distressed. That is why she doesn't notice; not at first.<p>

Of course, she's seen him before. He has visited Gamlen's house at times, but he always stands awkwardly at the threshold, peering in to wait for Marian, but never actually entering. Not like the others. They're the biggest group of misfits she's ever encountered, but Leandra understands why Marian keeps them close. They've all been over for dinner at some point. But the elf had just flushed and declined, in a polite, stuttered voice, when Leandra had asked him if he wanted to join them one evening. She hadn't pushed it.

So she knows very little about him, the shadowy presence who keeps close to her daughter. So quiet around her, that most of the time she forgets about him. And today is no different. Gathered in the merchants quarters, listening to Marian and Carver argue, he – and all their other campaigns – are just props to the performance.

Her children have always been like that, constantly butting heads whilst Bethany anxiously glanced between them. Malcolm could usually end the fighting, a sharp bark that would make them at least stop bickering, even if the resentments lingered. But after he died, Leandra's voice was too quiet. And the fights became louder and angrier.

Still, they've never been this bad. Losing Bethany, coming to Kirkwall – something has splintered between them. They don't speak for weeks on end, only to erupt in occasional fits of rage, so cruel to one another that it's almost impossible for Leandra to imagine a future where they can be happy together. This is an argument that has been weeks in the making – who will descend into the dark.

She can't stop herself from pushing between them as her panic claws at her throat, hot and overwhelming. That this could be the last time they are all together is…impossible…to imagine. What she is about to do is selfish, she knows. But Marian will never listen to her, never stay behind. But Carver – there is a chance, such a small chance, that he might stay. That he will be safe.

'Are you taking Carver with you?' Leandra demands, cutting off her daughter mid speech as she slides between her two children.

Marian blinks, startled for a moment, then gestures over her shoulder. 'Actually…I was thinking that…Fenris might be the better choice for our swordsmen.' In the distance, the elf in question glances over at Marian, a small smile passing on his lips.

Leandra can't stop her sigh of relief, her shoulders slumping. Still, she can't ignore Marian's small flinch as the implications settle in, and there is no time to explain before Carver explodes behind her. 'The knife ear! You're taking the bloody knife ear?'

Marian's cheeks flush red as she hisses, 'Watch your language!'

It's not enough to placate Carver though – he is working himself up into one of his dangerous moods, which broke their table back in Lothering and shattered Gamlen's window only a few weeks ago. 'This is bullshit! What the hell gives you the right to decide if I go – are you so afraid that I might shine for once, and knock you off of your bloody pedestal?'

'This has nothing to do with that!' Marian bellows in response, hands curling into fists. 'Fenris and I complement each other in a fight and, quite frankly, he's a better swordsman than you are. I need only the best for this Carver, and you don't make the cut.'

And once again Leandra is drowned out, awash in the bitterness between the two of them. She tries to speak, tries to break them apart, but Carver is shouting again, so loud that every head in the market is turned their way. 'THIS IS NOT YOUR DECISION TO MAKE!'

A dark, unamused smile crosses Marian's face as she rocks back on her feet, crossing her arms to glare at his red face. 'I think you'll find it is. Because _I _am in charge, and this is something _I_ have to do.'

Carver rushes forward in a sudden movement, hand flashing out to seize the collar of Marian's robes. Leandra lets out a strangled noise, but before she can intervene her son is speaking, his voice quiet and strangely thick. 'You don't have to do this either, Miri. We could keep living like we do now, saving up money, buy the manor the hard way. But you're going down there because there's more than treasure. There's darkspawn. And more than anything in the world –' he shakes her slightly, face leaning even closer '– you want them to _burn_. Because Mother deserves better than the shit-hole we're living in. Because we didn't get to say goodbye to Lothering. Because of Bethany.' Slowly, Carver's hand drops from his sister's shoulder and he steps away. His eyes are wild as he finishes, gaze still level with Marian's strangely blank face. 'You're not just looking for gold down there, Miri. You're looking for peace. And I bloody need it too.'

Silence. Then Marian is turning away, pressing the palms of her hand to her forehead and exhaling nosily. She is still for only a few moments, before muttering 'Fine,' and moving away.

The surprise on Carver's face is palpable and Leandra reacts, stretching out to catch her daughter's arm and pull her back. Marian's jaw is taunt – all of her warning signs clear and screaming – but Leandra can feel her own anger rising. 'Miri, think about this! You just said –'

Her daughter pulls her arm away, her head shaking. 'He's right, Mother. This is his fight as much as mine. I can't leave him behind.'

Her fear spikes – _please save him don't leave me you're doing this to SPITE me don't go come home to me I love you _– and she whirls back to her son. 'Please Carver,' she begs, looking up into his blue eyes, so like Malcolm's. 'Please, stay here, with me.'

He shifts, uncomfortably, and pats at her shoulder. 'Don't worry about me. I'll be back before you know it. I swear.'

Defeat falls on her, crushing. She closes her eyes and steps back. They are both going, both leaving her, and she is powerless. She turns to leave, but cannot help but glance at her daughter. Can't help but think 'How can you do this to me?' as she stares into those shut off, hard eyes. But there is nothing she can do. As ever, she is powerless against them.

She stays around, to watch them leave, because she is masochistic and desperate for the sight of them. Carver stands aside, face still slightly stunned as he cleans his sword. Marian moves between people talking, gesturing. First to the scruffy mage boy, who pushes back her hair and offers her a tired smile. Then to the dwarf, sitting and pouring over some maps. And finally to the elf she was going to take instead of Carver.

She rubs against the back of her neck, stance awkward as she gestures at her brother. Explaining that instead will come with her. And Leandra is so consumed – with her anger, her fear, her love – that she does not understand what follows.

The elf's face is stoic, unmoving as Marian explains. Doesn't seem to speak when she finishes, just stands like a statue, fixing her with a look that Leandra will only later understand to be his own, emotionless mask. When Marian turns to leave, he reaches out, hesitant, to catch her sleeve. As Marian half turns, he immediately falls back and twists to face the marble arches of the merchant quarters. His spiked fingers dig into his leg. He swallows. Once. Twice. Then his lips move, so slowly and deliberately that even Leandra can read them across the courtyard. _Come. Back. _

Before Marian can reply he is gone, stalking away and disappearing into the coloured crowd. Still her daughter tries, tries to watch him leave, until the dwarf comes over and saddles her with another bag.

If Leandra thinks, if she really thinks, it was all so obvious, all so inevitable. But Leandra _does not_ think, does not appreciate what these small actions mean. All because she is tired, so tired, and unable to believe that her life has come down to watching, helpless, as her children storm hell.

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><p>Leandra is afraid. It's a feeling that she has experienced many, many times in her life. But this is an old fear – one she thought had been buried. That she cannot save her daughter.<p>

It is a stormy night as she moves herself down her stairs to the library. The rain always wakes her – has ever since she was a child – and tonight is no different. She is restless, in a way that only a fireplace and a good book will settle her.

She's not expecting anyone up this late, so she's yawning at the carpet as she rounds a corner and runs into the elf. He's moving so fast, his gaze also fixed on the ground, that they actually collide and she ricochets off of his hard armour. His arms shoot out and catch her, and they briefly lock eyes.

Then he has set her back on her feet and has retreated, as if burnt.

Leandra is startled, but not surprised. Not really. The elf's been visiting more and more recently – reading lessons, her daughter insists – and she's not foolish enough to ignore the little looks they send each other when no one else is watching. Marian's had company before, usually discreetly managed, and she certainly seems to enjoy the elf's company.

It doesn't mean this moment isn't awkward, of course.

'So, Fenris –' she begins. But there is no time to finish.

'I'm so sorry, Lady Amell, but I really cannot stay,' he interrupts, voice small and tight. Before he's even finished speaking he's striding for the door, leaving her uncomfortable attempts at conversation to wither away.

He's gone, but she can't just brush off his rapid exit. There's something about the way he hesitates at the door, about the way he presses his forehead against the threshold – just for a moment – before he has disappeared into the night. Something that closes her throat and presses against her head.

Leandra stands still in her home for a few moments, listening to the steady drum of the rain. It's not a conscious act, to suddenly turn and head back up the stairs.

It occurs to her that she is walking slow…and all because she is afraid. Marian has always been strong, always been her father. Every problem they've ever faced, she has just closed her eyes, breathed in deeply and decided. Leandra is suddenly aware, shockingly aware, of how dependent she is on her daughter being strong – on her making the decisions, on her being the scapegoat for all their misery. How much has she neglected, believing the jokes Marian tells and the smiles she wears. And Leandra is sacred, terrified, heart thudding in her chest, because it is suddenly so obvious that Marian is _not_ alright, and Leandra has no idea how to fix her, how to save her. Leandra is tired, so tired, of life fracturing her children in front of her very eyes.

She pushes open Marian's door. The fire is burning low. Her daughter is wearing a red robe, her hair is a mess. She looks so lost. It's the same face the elf wore as he left the house (and that's why she can't bring herself to hate him, despite what he's done to her little girl).

Leandra enters the room, slow. Sinks down onto the bed and stretches out a hand. Touches her daughter's cheek. And waits. Until the rain outside trails away.

'He left,' Marian says finally. Her eyes flutter shut. 'Everyone always leaves.'

She's not crying, but somehow that makes it worse. This isn't something you can cry away. This is deeper.. 'Not me, sweetheart,' Leandra whispers. And she does something she hasn't done for years, pulling Marian's head down into her lap and gently stroking her hair. Long strokes, pulling the strands away from her face until her breathing evens out and the pale sun creeps under the drapes.

'Never me.'

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><p>Leandra is furious, <em>furious<em>, but she manages to keep her polite smile in place as she offers the Seneschal's son some more wine and compliments his father's choice of tunic. It doesn't matter that she has spent weeks convincing Bran to come to this dinner. It doesn't matter that Marian lied when she promised that she would be back in time. It doesn't matter that any prospects of marriage are slowly draining away. All that matters is keeping the conversation alive and the glasses full.

It is not until half way through the main course that Marian bangs her way into the manor, the wind and rain howling in behind her. Those hideous robes she always wears are ripped and rain-soaked, her hair slicked to her face. Her boots are heavy with mud; within moments she and her mabari have coated, and most likely ruined, the front carpet.

It is so appalling, so damning, that for a moment Leandra feels faint and she has to tightly grip her chair to stop from keeling over.

'Sorry,' Marian calls out, as she pulls off her gauntlets and tosses them onto the floor. 'I was up on Sundermount and it started pissing' – Leandra is going to _throttle _her – 'it down. It took us hours to get back.'

'Sundermount?' the Seneschal's son asks, nose wrinkled. 'By the Maker – why would anyone want to go up there?'

For a few moments Leandra prays, begs Andraste that Marian will recognise a rhetorical question for what it is and just leave it. But she sees the angry gleam in her daughter's eyes, the tension in the casual shrug of her shoulders, and knows that she will do nothing to alleviate the situation. 'Visiting the Dalish,' Marian drawls out. 'We had some business to sort.' Her words are easy, but Leandra can hear the challenge in her voice, just daring their guests to question the company she keeps.

Seneschal Bran takes the bait. 'You talk with those savages?'

Marian's answering smile is feral, her voice sharp. 'Now Bran, I think you'd actually find them quite accommodating. Well, as long as you're willing to drink the halla blood and bring them their virginal sacrifices.'

'Miri!' Leandra can't temper the anger that vibrates in her sudden shout. She struggles to check her raging emotions, but manages to resume her cool, quiet façade as she says, 'Why don't you go upstairs and dress for dinner?'

In that moment Marian finally seems to realises that the storm brewing inside the manor is so much worse than the thunder and lightning outside. She levels a nod at her mother before jogging up the stairs to her room, staff scrapping against the marble stair-rail as she goes.

They are just finishing dessert when she finally returns. _At least she's clean_, Leandra thinks, although that's the very best that can be said about her appearance. Marian's skin is still pink from being scrubbed clean and she's pinned her hair back into a messy tangle. She has ignored the lovely Orlesian dress Leandra laid out on her bed earlier and is instead wearing that old red house-robe. She hasn't even bothered to put on shoes.

'So, Bran. How's Serendipity been lately?' Marian asks, as she slides into her seat. The Seneschal chokes, eyes bugging, and Leandra gapes at her daughter, who can't hide her smile as she swallows an entire glass of wine in one.

Only minutes later Leandra is pacing in front of the fireplace. 'For Andraste's sake, Miri, what were you doing in there?'Her daughter is slumped in an armchair, legs dangling over one side as she pops small Antivan sweets in her mouth. Leandra had intended to serve them after dinner, but their guests had left almost the minute their plates were cleared.

'Don't know what you're talking about,' Marian replies, as she paws her way through the bowl of treats. 'Do we have any more of these, they're delicious.'

'This is serious!' A distant part of her mind recognises those words – remembers a similar argument in the same room, many years before; her mother demanding to know why she was rejecting the Comte's advances. But her humiliation is too fresh, and Leandra doesn't linger on these thoughts that challenge her righteous anger. 'Orana and I spent hours preparing that dinner. And you didn't even care enough to turn up in time, or make our guests welcome. Do you think basic courtesy is beneath you?'

Marian sighs, placing the bowl down on a side table. 'I know, I know. You're right,' she says wearily, dragging a hand over her face. 'Bran's an ass, but he didn't deserve that. You didn't deserve that. I don't know what came over me.'

'Please, we both know _why_! Why you keep ignoring all of the lovely young men who are interested in you.' Leandra is tired. So tired. That's why she says. It's an awful thing to say, but she is angry and hurt and she just can't stop it from bursting out. 'It's because you're too busy panting after that elf, despite the fact that you've already given him the only thing he was interested in.'

Marian's mask slips. She's always been like her father, laughing and hiding behind her own sharp wit. But for a moment she is young again, vulnerable, mouth parted and eyes misting. She's a little girl being told that the bad men will hurt her if she keeps healing stray animals. She's a young woman closing her father's glassy eyes. She's a refugee staring at her burning home.

Then the mask is back, eyes like flint and lips thinned. 'I need some air.' She's out of the chair and storming towards the door within moments, the mabari immediately jumping up to trot at her side. Leandra stands still, useless, as the door slams behind Marian and the loud noise settles into silence.

The guilt that claws at her throat is overwhelming. She distracts herself from the sudden urge to cry by arranging the beautiful white lilies that were delivered to her earlier that day.

* * *

><p>Leandra is tired. So tired. She's felt tired for years, but finally sleep is coming. She imagines Malcolm, and her little Bethany waiting for her, and can't stop her eyes from drifting shut, can't keep staring at Marian's bloodied face. But the last thing she sees – the last thing Leandra knows of this world – is a tanned and tattooed hand, free of its usual armour, curving over Marian's shoulder.<p>

In those final moments, when her vision is gone and all she hears is Marian's soft weeping, those years of watching and wondering crystallise in a swift, sharp understanding.

She cares for the boy because he loves her girl. _Loves_ her, sees the world rise and set with her smile. He'd follow her anywhere, if she'd she let him. And even though he's afraid, even if it'll take him time, he'll take care of her now that Leandra no longer can. He'll realise what it is he feels, realise that it's not something to fear, but to cherish, to hold so close until it's taken away.

But she hates him because he is another way in which Marian's life will be vicious and hard. She'll never be a noblewomen living without fear. His past will hang over them, colour their lives. What he is will invite judgement, hatred, from those who do not know them. And their children will be spat at and cursed.

They will love, beautifully. Tragically. In the end, she and Marian are not so different, just a part of the same, repeating cycle. Leandra can already imagine the life that Marian will live, the sacrifices she will make. Just like her mother before her, everything Leandra did to change her daughter's feelings was in vain.

Because the elf…Fenris…he is Marian's Malcom, and Leandra can't believe she is only just realising it now.


	8. Jethann

**Disclaimer: Bioware owns all **

**Little bit of language in this piece! Takes place early in Act 3.**

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><p>'So how long until these moonlight visits cross the territory into harassment?'<p>

It's quite comical really, Jethann thinks, as the elf before him tenses and spins around, away from the Hawke estate. Well, at least it would be comical if said elf wasn't glowing and reaching for his greatsword. It's always in the bloody details.

'Oh, by all means, don't let me stop you,' Jethann continues, fighting to maintain his façade of nonchalance. He takes a long draught from his spindleweed splint to calm his nerves and leans back into the cool, marble wall. Kirkwall nights are always like this – pleasantly warm, soft breezes. It drives Madam Luisine insane, but Jethann always sneaks out during his breaks. He loves the sweat and music and laughter of the Blooming Rose…but sometimes. Sometimes…

Thankfully, Fenris appears to have recognised him, so he's not about to brutally butchered. That's always good. The other elf's jaw has gone slack, and he stares, perplexed, with one hand hovering in the air as it retreats from his weapon. Jethann makes the most of his confusion to unashamedly ogle, taping at the orange glow of his smoke. _How on earth does Hawke get anything done with him around? _

'When did you – where did you…'

Fenris sounds so very bewildered that Jethann can no longer restrain his bark of laughter, which dies slightly as Fenris' face twists into a snarl. 'I know it's Hightown, darling, but if a whore can sneak up on you, you might want to think about watching your pretty back at night.' He drops his finished splint and crushes its last embers with his heel. 'Or maybe I could –'

'What do you want? Have – have you been _following _me?' The other elf snaps, shoulders hunched in embarrassment. Like a cornered cat, hissing and spitting. Jethann attempts to hide his amused smile by rolling his shoulders and pushing away from the wall.

'Following would imply that I've been making an active effort. It's impossible to miss someone like you prowling around the noble residences, brooding and shooting those longing glance at her window. All I have to do is walk out of the whore house to see you,' Jethann shrugs and picks at his nails, smirking softly. 'So how many visits is it this month – three? Not as bad as earlier in the year I suppose – you could barely make it through a week.'

'Leave me alone,' the other elf bites out. His words are hard, bitter, and he rakes his hands through his hair, leaving it in disarray. But he will not look Jethann in the eye and it's apparent that this is not anger. Not really. This is shame, and sometimes that burns so much sharper. 'You have no idea what you're talking about.'

This irks Jethann, who raises a delicate eyebrow. '_I _don't know what I'm talking about? _Me? _Listen sweetheart, I've been watching you stare at her room for years, and not once have you had the balls to actually go and speak to her.' He ignores the warning growl that follows these words and ploughs on, speaking louder. 'You know, people think that being a whore is just about warming a bed and quick tumbles that stop you from sitting straight for a week – which I am fantastic at, don't you worry,' Jethann reassures. 'But a good whore is one who can read people. Know their limits, know their fears. I know my clients better than they know themselves, and I have most certainly spent enough time with Hawke to know what she wants, probably better than you do.'

Something in Fenris' eyes seem to fracture; he steps back, as if winded, dropping his head so his long fringe shades his face. Jethann watches him breathe in deeply, one, twice – then he suddenly straightens, back ramrod straight, and the glare he levels at Jethann is burning. He starts to advance.

_Oh shit, shit, shit. _

'By the Maker, no.' Jethann coughs, backing up slightly. 'Not in that way – not with _Hawke _– although I'm flattered that that's where your mind went,' he drawls, trying to reclaim the upper hand in the conversation. _Andraste's ass he's easy to provoke. _The frantic beat of his heart stammers back into its normal rhythm, as Fenris rocks back on his feet and uncurls his fists.

It's certainly not that Hawke isn't interesting, or beautiful. Jethann would never say that (especially not to her face). She's fascinating, in so many ways; her strange, bright eyes; the way she throws her head back and _roars_ with laughter. Everyone loves her at the Rose; her visits are rare, but a sure circle of patrons and whores alike crowd around her whenever she does come. She's always smiling, telling ridiculous stories with Varric, clapping her hands for Madam Lusine to bring more wine (she's well aware that that is a job for the barkeep, but it's enough to drive the old bat mad and that's another reason why they all love her). And god, she's an awful flirt. Leaning up against whoever's closest to her, whispering low in their ear and letting that small grin curve its way across her face. He's seen men watch her as subtly as they can manage, which isn't very. Hawke always seems to feel their stares and will wink at them, utterly shameless. And hilarious.

Still. As much as Jethann adores Hawke, he doesn't want her. Jethann's been in the business long enough to understand that, no matter the front she puts forward, it's just that. A front. She will sing and dance and touch, but anything closer – anything _deeper_ – is strictly off limits. She burns, glorious, but it's all skin deep. Beneath that pretty mask, there's only one person she wants.

Whether he deserves her remains to be seen.

These thoughts are enough to give him back his courage – the courage that drove him to finally confront Fenris on his nightly visits. He thinks back, to Hawke in the Blooming Rose only a few hours ago. Her sad smile when he asked if there was anyone _special_. The brief closing of her eyes before she shook her head.

The memory makes his voice icy as he stares Fenris directly in the eye and says, 'Not that it's any business of years if I'm sleeping with Hawke. You gave up that right years ago. As it is, you're just damned spoilt that she has such a warped sense of fidelity. Three years is far too long for a gem like Hawke to go without –'

'You don't know that,' Fenris interrupts, voice low. 'You don't know that there's not been someone that she's been with, that there's not someone who she cares for…' he trails off, eyes drifting back to the soft light emanating from Hawke's room.

_By the Maker, what a masochistic bugger._

A derisive snort is enough to shift Fenris' attention away from the estate. 'Please, as if the sexual repression screaming from her body wasn't enough, your friend Isabela likes to talk,' Jethann replies, before pointedly asking, 'So did you ever get those lyrium breasts?'

Fenris shuts up, glancing away (and seemingly unconsciously he crosses his arms over his chest). Beneath his tanned skin there is a faint flush on his cheeks. It's gorgeous, of course (and he can't help but wonder how far it stretches) but Jethann refuses to be distracted.

'You know, if it's not me, it's going to be someone,' he murmurs. 'It might be in a year. A few months. Maybe tomorrow.'

'I know,' Fenris says softly.

He needs to hear this, Jethann tells himself. Even if it seems cruel to say, he need to know. 'There's no shortage of people after her,' he continues, prodding at the tiger. 'She's got lots of noble suitors. The healer from Darktown. Maker, even Cullen is rumoured to be interested. You can't expect her never to move on.'

'I _know_,' Fenris repeats, louder. 'I'm not expecting her not to. I know she doesn't owe me anything, I just – I…' His words stutter to a clumsy end and he sighs. All that rage from before has left him, leaving him boneless. He's almost curled in, as if to protect himself, to hide from the truth he doesn't want to hear. 'Please, just stop talking about her.'

It's almost polite, and so Jethann raises his hands in mock surrender. 'Fine, fine. Nothing more about Hawke. But I do have one last thing to say to you, and you are going to listen.' He doesn't know what mad bravery has taken over him as he strides his way over to Fenris, but this has been something he has wanted to do for months. _Maker, I am too young to die. And far too gorgeous. _From somewhere inside of him comes the hardest voice he can manage, clipped and firm. 'Hawke is a good woman, but she has spent far too many years pining after your sorry arse. So you better grow a pair and tell her where this fuck up of a relationship is going to go, because she has a lot of friends who are fed up with the limbo you've left her in.'

Fenris' brow furrows and he shifts slightly, seeming to gain several inches of height. _Shit he's tall for an elf. Hmm...I wonder if – not now, Jethann!_ 'Is that a threat?' Fenris asks, voice glacial.

_Shit! Keep calm, keep calm. _'It is.' He tilts his chin to face Fenris directly, determined not to be intimidated.

The moment is drawn out like a thread, taunt and quivering. Jethann fights hard against the slight quiver of his lip, and to keep his gaze steady in the face of those huge green eyes. He is insane, absolutely insane, for threatening this elf who is the source of a number of scary stories that Varric tells the Lowtown children. _For Hawke, for Hawke. Don't back down. Look him in the eye. For Hawke. _

Then, slowly, Fenris nods.

Jethann sucks in a sudden breath he didn't realise he was holding. _Praise Andraste. What horrific irony it would have been for me to die by magical fisting. _'Good. I'm glad we had this little chat then,' he says, voice a little more strained than normal. Keeping his head high, he spins and marches away, trying desperately to ignore the light headed feeling that he may be about to faint. 'Glad we got all that unpleasantness sorted out, darling. Let me know how it goes!' he calls out, waving over his shoulder. The only response is a brief grunt behind him.

There. Everything wonderfully sorted. He's done right by his friend. He's said everything that needs to be said. Well almost everything. _Don't say it. Don't SAY it. Whatever you do, Jethann, DON'T – _Jethann pauses and glances back at the lonely figure behind him. _Oh crap, I'm going to say it. _'Just remember, darling. If it all works out for you two…my room at the Blooming Rose will _always_ be open if you're feeling adventurous.'

Jethann is already sprinting his way back to the Blooming Rose when the Teviner curses reach full pitch behind him.

* * *

><p><strong>The promised Jethann chapter! When I was first writing this, I gravitated towards jealous!Fenris, but is felt a little easy. After all, not ALL of Thedas can be Hawke-sexual, and sassy friend Jethann felt more fun! I never would have considered Jethann's perspective without Enchanter T.I.M's suggestion (so thank you, once again). Incidentally, if anyone has any other suggestions, please let me know. Carver's POV should be up soon, and I have promised to do Alistair and Donnic, but who else would you like to hear from?<strong>


	9. Carver

**Disclaimer: Bioware owns all**

**Now that summer is here, hopefully I'll be able to update more often. So this one-shot is set in Act 3, post-Alone, during the Finding Nathaniel quest. As a bit of an explanation, Hawke did not take Fenris along in the Battle for the Keep, so this is the first time Warden!Carver has seen him since leaving for the Deep Roads in the Leandra one-shot.**

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><p>After six years of being a warden, Carver likes to think that he has grown up a great deal. He's still the same man he once was, but tempered, more controlled. He doesn't speak of abstract glory, of great plans that will be bitterly cast aside when they conflict with reason. He doesn't blame others for his own inaction. His new goals are not dissimilar to the old; he still longs to move forward, to progress; not be tied down to the weary past, to carve out a better future. But now, he does not just speak: he acts. And not blindly or rashly – under the direction of his Commander.<p>

So yes, he has grown up a great deal.

He still slugs Fenris in the face the next time he meets him.

It's very nearly the reunion their mother would have loved. He's pinned down in one of the Deep Road tunnels, darkspawn pressing in (…perhaps his mother would not have appreciated that bit), when fire starts to rain down around him. And even though he's worked with hundreds of mages in the last few years, he'd recognise that magic anywhere. Miri, racing down the stone steps to him, blasting anything in her way into the wall. It's not sophisticated, but it's enough. They soon make short work of the bastards, and as Carver stands, breathing heavily, his sister collides into him in the best approximation of a hug his chainmail allows.

'Carver, you total prat! Why am I always rescuing your arse?' Her words are light, but her voice is tight. For a few moment Carver relaxes into the hug; she smells like Lothering to him – her mabari, the hint of lyrium, and something like peaches. Then their problems – problems they are still working through – are remembered, and they immediately pull away and stare determinedly in different directions. Carver rubs at his neck. Miri crosses her arms. It's so ridiculous, so immediate a change, that he snorts in vague amusement.

Miri looks at him offers a tentative smile. He returns it.

Their mother would have been so proud.

Then the elf comes racing down the stairs into the dark cavern. He's followed by two smaller bodies, but Carver barely registers them. There's only the sudden recognition of that ridiculous white mop of hair, and then his arm is swinging.

'Carver!' his sister shouts, appalled, as the elf staggers back. A distant part of Carver's brain is well aware that he is fortunate not to have a glowing hand buried deep in his chest at the moment – but he is too busy staring, satisfied, at the bloody trail streaming out of the elf's nose.

'Hello, Fenris,' he says politely, voice shockingly calm. He turns to the dwarf, currently holding back a smile as he checks his ridiculously over-pocketed coat for a handkerchief. 'Varric.' Ignoring the fluttering in his chest, he turns to his sister's final companion. 'Merrill.' She gapes at him, eyes wide in shock (at his sudden appearance or his decision to hit Fenris, he cannot say).

His stomach turns over. _Shit_. He hasn't grown up in that respect either.

The little part of his mind that still worries about his self preservation is thankful that the elf seems more surprised than anything else, shooting him a disgruntled look as he takes Varric's cloth and brushes the blood aside. His sister, however, seems less accommodating.

'For the Maker's sake Carver, how did you manage to get yourself trapped in this hellhole, and why have you decided to attack us when we're trying to bloody help you!' she shouts, moving to stand between him and the irritated elf.

'I hit him because he's a jackass,' Carver replies, shaking out his hand. 'Don't give me that look – Mother used to write to me, I know what he did!' He cries out, not bothering to speak delicately in front of their audience. Varric is pretending to polish Bianca but is really watching and listening intently to their argument – _the slimy bugger_ – whilst Fenris' nose appears to have stopped bleeding enough for him to lean against the cave wall, face stoic as he watches them fight. Merrill is simply doing her best to ignore them all, humming under her breath.

Miri's face is flushed, but it quickly becomes clear it's not just from anger. 'That still doesn't mean you can hit him!' Now she lowers the voice and the flush deepens, creeping down her neck. 'Listen, I haven't written to you in a while and…well…Fenris and I have – well we're trying to make it work again –'

'In the name of the Maker!' Carver bellows, wanting to grab Miri and shake her. _You deserved better, Miri. You always have. _'You're back with the same knife ear who broke your heart and treated you like a common whore?'

_That _is enough to get the elf moving, pushing off of the wall and marching up to Carver, teeth bared in a snarl. 'Care to repeat that, boy?'

Carver is ready to, his mouth already open, when he feels it. _The scratching, as if under my skin, red, blood and black, dark and heady, shrieking in my ears and a song, beautiful, with words I can't understand –_

He only has time to bark out a warning, before the darkspawn flood down into the cavern, a black writhing mass that overwhelms them.

* * *

><p>The way they're fighting together absolutely screams it – completely in sync as they move in the cramped space to a dance that no one else knows. Fenris and Miri never look at each other; they simply seem to have an innate understanding of where they're standing relative to one another; a sword gliding over her head, her staff whistling past his ear. Together they are indomitable, cutting down the darkspawn quickly and furiously.<p>

It would almost be beautiful to watch, if the desire to pummel the elf into the dust had abated.

When the last darkspawn finally falls, Miri waves her hands at him. 'Truce, truce,' she says, breathing somewhat laboured. 'Right now there are more important things than our problems. 'We ran into another Warden who sent us this way – Nathaniel–'

'He's alive?' Carver interrupts, unable to contain his relief.

Miri pauses and offers him a genuine smile. 'Alive, and perfectly unharmed,' she tells him gently. She gestures back up the stairs and adds, 'At least he was twenty minutes ago. He said he could hold the darkspawn off long enough for us to find you. We need to get back to him and the get the hell out of this pit.'

Carver shakes his head. 'I'm not leaving, not yet. I was separated from the rest of my patrol – they've gone down that tunnel over there – and I need to find them. This place is suicidal and I'm not leaving them to die.'

'We'll have to split up then,' Miri sighs, pressing at the bridge of her nose. She sounds exasperated, but there's a hint of pride in her voice. It's the same tone Father used to use, and the ghost of it is enough to make Carver stand taller. _I can make something of myself. Something they all wanted for me._ 'I'll take a team back up to look for Nathaniel. Carver, you keep looking for the rest of your men with –'

'With Fenris.' Carver replies.

Miri actually gapes at him. 'I'm sorry, _what_?' she says. 'That's the most ridiculous idea…I mean – wouldn't it more sensible for you to go without a mage instead. Like Merrill!' she adds quickly, gesturing at the pretty elven girl. 'Don't you want to go with Merrill instead?'

_Manipulative witch. _

Carver shakes his head as he shoots Merrill an apologetic smile – _dammit why does she have to grin at me like that! _– and says, 'No, I think Fenris should come with me. I think we need to have a little chat.'

'Well _I _think –' Miri begins, but she is interrupted by none other than the elf, stepping forward and laying a hand on her arm.

'I agree with him,' Fenris mutters. 'There are things we both need to say.'

His sister's face is a complete picture – indignation and confusion and that little vein in her forehead starting to throb. Carver doesn't have much time to enjoy it though, as Varric is already heading back up the stairs he came from. 'Come on Hawke, just leave the boys to their pissing match, we've got a job to do!' he calls back. Merrill offers Carver once last smile before she takes after Varric, practically bounding up the stairs.

For a moment Miri stands still, hesitant, before exhaling nosily and inelegantly. She follows after the elf and dwarf, but half way up the steps she pauses as the others run on. Looking back over her shoulder she fixes a terrifying eye on them. '_Don't _kill him when I'm gone,' she commands.

'We'll see,' Carver and Fenris reply at the same time.

* * *

><p>'So. You and my sister,' Carver begins, as he squeezes his way through a particularly tight passage. In his hand the glow of his torch wobbles dangerously, before bathing the stone walls in soft orange light once more.<p>

'Your sister and I,' Fenris parrots, voice distinctly amused as he slips through the same space with ease. _Bloody, skinny-ass elf, _Carver grumbles to himself. _What kind of warrior doesn't wear proper armour anyway?_

Carver scowls and grounds out, 'Don't get smart with me, elf. Unlike Miri I'm not about to stomach that crap.'

The voice behind him is wry. 'I am well aware that there are any many differences between you and Marian.'

It's her name. So he really shouldn't be so shocked, shouldn't really stop dead and almost lose his grip on the torch. But he hasn't heard anyone say it for nearly ten years and it's enough for him to be propelled back into his childhood. Back to when he was so young that neither he nor his sister could pronounce her name properly, and Mother had to supply the alternative of 'Miri'. Far more manageable a name for an infant and one so ingrained into his consciousness that he continues to use it to this day. But their father…their father had always refused. 'She is our little Marian, Leandra,' he used to chuckle. 'How could I call her anything else?' And Miri would smile and bury herself in Father's comforting arms.

But when he died, Marian died too. At the funeral pyre their Mother had wrapped her arms around her eldest daughter and whispered her name. Marian. And Miri had ripped herself away, eyes hard and body rigid. 'Don't call me that.' She had hissed. So they never did. Even when their Mother still thought of her as 'our little Marian', Miri would never answer to her name again. From then on she introduced herself to others as Hawke, and that was all most understood her to be; they only ever saw that bright and shallow mask she created for herself. For the rare few who spent some time around the Hawke family, the name Miri was occasionally heard and accepted as the truth. Carver doubts that even Varric believes her real name to be anything other than Miri.

But to this elf, she is Marian.

_Andraste's great flaming ass_. Carver allows himself a quick shake of his head before pressing on once more. There's no plainer way to show quite how serious this is.

'Just listen, elf.' Carver works at hacking his way through the spiderwebs, perhaps with more force than necessary. 'I don't have a clue how your bloody 'relationship' works – and I _don't _want details…but...' Carver takes a steadying breath. 'I'm a Warden. I hear things. I know what Kirkwall's like at the moment. For mages. And even though she's gotten better, Miri's always been as reckless as I am. And she's buried balls deep in all the political shit. She's going to get herself in trouble.' Now he turns to face the elf, trying to school his features into the authoritative face his Commander always uses. 'I can't be there. But you can. And I'm tired of losing things.' The flickering light of his torch dims as he presses close to Fenris, making the most of his height advantage to glare down at him. 'So you are going to keep her safe. And so help me, if you let anything happen to her I will rip the lyrium out of your skin.'

Fenris meets his gaze, unflinching. For a moment, the two most significant men in Miri's life are locked in a silent confrontation. Then the elf speaks, voice hoarse. 'Marian is the most important thing that has ever happened to me. I've made mistakes – many mistakes – with our relationship, but I promise you this. Nobody will ever hurt her again. And I will kill anyone who tries.'

They aren't soft declarations of love. But they _aren't_ men of love – pretty words and easy lives are alien to them. They have been hardened, by the things they have seen…the things they have done. So those words – which may be lacking to some – Carver understands.

'Good,' he mutters, stepping back and beginning up the narrow tunnel once again. 'That's all I wanted to know.' He barely moves two steps forward before he stops once more. 'Also, if you break her heart again, I'll feed you to a bloody Archdemon,' he adds, calmly.

That low, dark chuckle sounds once more from behind him and for once it doesn't irritate Carver into curling his fingers into fists. 'Agreed.'

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><p><strong>I know lots of people dislike him, but I love Carver! If you make him a Warden there's some wonderful character growth, and his relationship with Hawke is very realistic. <strong>

**Also, thank you for all the reviews with future POV ideas - I had wondered about Gamlen, Orana and Bodhan; it's nice to hear they're popular ideas! But lots of new ones too – in particular Bethany and Samson. And thank you so much for the reviews everyone - they really encourage a first time writer!**


	10. Orana

**Disclaimer: Bioware owns all!**

**This one-shot is set in Act 2, around the Bitter Pill storyline and its consequences (with some slight adaptations to the dialogue).**

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><p>He is angry, so very angry; the painted elf is all loud words and quick movements. Angry, so angry, angry at her? No, not at her. At the lady with him, the pretty lady with big eyes and bright hair. The lady with the staff on her back – like the one mistress has – but she's not using it right now – not using it at her.<p>

Instead the pretty lady – she's taking off her robe, wrapping it around her. And Orana tries to shake it off, because it's such a beautiful robe with the rich blues like mistress loves, and Orana doesn't deserve to wear something like that – _disgusting little bitch _– but the pretty lady holds it firm and Orana is too tired to fight. She stops struggling, just sinks into the warmth, trying to keep her eyes from fluttering shut.

The angry elf, he's soaked in blood, matting in his hair, dried rivets on his face. He has wild, wild eyes, like the diseased dogs of Minrathous, driven mad in agony and snapping at anyone who gets too close. He scares Orana and she presses back into the pretty lady, who pats at her back. She smells like sunshine.

They are speaking in harsh, rushed tones, words clipped and clunky. Common, mistress called it. Orana learnt a little from the nice stable boy that used to live at the mansion, before mistress had him taken away. She recognises some words – _witch, calm, slave, blood. _They echo in her ears, loud, loud, so _loud,_ and she just wants Papa to take her away from this place and back into the warm kitchen. _My little moon. How bright you shine._

The words trip off of her tongue, heavy and desperate, before she can think too much about them. 'They hurt Papa. Bled him.'

The pretty lady and the angry elf stop their argument and glance at her. Her mouth opens; his thins. Then they are speaking more, faster until their words almost buzz. The pretty lady calls the angry elf Fenris. _Little wolf. _The wolf calls her the Common word for hawke. The room spins, a blur of brown – her eyes roll back and she is a mouse, small and broken on the ground as the predators circle one another, vicious and unrelenting.

But she is being shaken awake. The hawke is lifting her to her feet. When she speaks, her voice is slow, deliberate. But kind, like when Papa used to sneak her small treats from the kitchen. Her words are a babble, some nonsense, but she can just string a message together. 'Kirkwall. Go to Kirkwall. Ask for the Hawke. Find the Hawke's house.'

But the wolf is stalking around them and suddenly strikes forward, wrenching the hawke's wrist away. He roars at her, baring his teeth. _Homo homini lupus._

The hawke is brave though. She extends her wings, her face burning red as she speaks, low and in a voice that makes Orana quake. And when she has seen off the threat – the wolf skulking at the corner of the room, tearing at his skin as if to pull himself apart – the hawke's attention shifts back to the mouse. Orana tries to ignore the violent Tevtiner curses in the background (words she knows, but are so hateful that she wishes she doesn't) and focuses on what the pretty lady is saying. 'Kirkwall. Hawke.'

Papa, Orana thinks. She can't leave Papa. Papa, his face stretched, his screams, echoing in stone – _Run, my moon. Run! _

'Run,' the Hawke says. 'Run and I will help.'

* * *

><p>Orana runs, and runs, and runs. Like Papa told her to do. Like the pretty lady told her to do. The hawke. She runs because she is afraid that mistress will appear and split her in two, runs because the wolf was feral and might want to hunt. Orana runs until her feet bleed, and then she runs some more, because it is getting dark and in the distance she can see the faint glow of a city.<p>

It's like Minrathous, when she gets there. Small, windy streets that smell of rot and filth, and little children playing in the sewage and men lying dead in alleyways. But this is not home, and she feels the walls begin to press in on her as she wanders in hopeless, helpless circles.

The sun has set when she runs into another elf, like her, with large green eyes and a strange marked face. She says she's lost too, but she can always find the hawke house, with some twine. The happy elf takes her up stairs, too many stairs, to a white place. All the buildings look like the mistress', and Orana shrinks away from all the people in pretty and bright clothing. But the happy elf does not seem to notice – she holds her arm and guides her on, speaking constantly even as Orana blinks in confusion, trying to understand the torrent of words.

The happy elf stops, quickly, and suddenly Orana is being thrust towards one of the larger houses, so white it hurts her eyes, decorated in rich ivy. She glances back and her guide is gone – she has no choice, none, but to reach out and knock against the door.

The first time she barely scraps her knuckles before she flinches back. Then a cold wind furls past her, and she jolts forward to beat against the wood. A shuffle behind it, and then it is pulled open, a small and bearded man staring up at her.

'The hawke sent me.' Orana mouths. She can't talk. Can't stop shivering. Can't feel her feet.

The small man looks at her like she is stupid – _you dropped it, you stupid girl, stupid, STUPID – _but then he smiles. It's a nice smile, a worried smile, so Orana tries to smile back, as the little man opens the door and draws her into the house.

* * *

><p><em>Be safe, my little moon.<em>

The rain is roaring outside the window, jealous. It wants to be inside, in the lovely warm house with the fire, in the comforting embrace of bed, with the tray of untouched food on the bedside table. It knows Orana does not belong in such a place.

It never storms much in Minrathous, but when it does it always feels like the world is breaking apart. Papa used to sing to her to cover the sound of the lightening, little rhymes that made her smile.

_Rain, rain, go away; come again another day._

But Papa is not here, and she misses the other servants pressed up against her in the small shed where they stayed, and the rain is so loud it hurts, and no matter how many times she washes in the basin of water all she can smell is _blood_.

She is moving out of the bed immediately, wanting to do something, wanting to do anything. Cleaning, there is always cleaning will be done. And that will please Mistress Amell, with her smell of lavender and her kind way. Who had sat her down at the table and brought food to her. Who had taken her into a beautiful room, and declared it hers. Who had told her to rest – not to worry about mistress hawke, still absent, not to concern herself with any duties – simply to rest until she felt better. But Orana can't fight the suffocating in her throat – she must please the new mistress, must prove she deserves to be here and not out in the rain.

The stairs creak as she makes her way down them – they too, know that she does not belong – and she freezes, chastised. She begins again, tentative and glancing around the dimly lit lower floor.

Then she gasps, and throws herself back into the shadows of the staircase.

The wolf is rain soaked, his white hair plastered against his face, but Orana can still see his wide smile through it, as he presses mistress Hawke against the wall. She whispers something to him and he chuckles, voice rich, before leaning forward and catching her lips in a kiss. Mistress' hands slide up his back and tangle in the hair at his neck, stroking through it gently. The wolf lets out a soft groan, gripping hard at mistress' waist, and lifting her so that he can bite at her white throat.

Orana struggles to catch her breath. Once, when she was very small, she had found a magister and a kitchen girl, only a few years older than herself, together in an empty corridor. But that was harsh, and cruel, with blood, and tears, and screaming, and she had stood there, just stood, terrified, before her Papa had found her and dragged her away.

But this – for all the scratching, the marks – this is different. The wolf is not after his prey; his eyes – watching mistress kiss the painted line of his palm – his eyes are so beautiful. He is not hunting, not tonight – he is surrendering.

Mistress is safe, safe with her wolf. And so the mouse slinks away to hide.

* * *

><p>Morning. Gentle pink light, from under the curtains. Orana shifts on the bed. She hasn't slept. Not a wink, as Papa used to say. She misses him. Can't sleep without him near. Wants him to sing. Wants him to make his soup. Can't sleep on the soft bed. The rain has stopped, but all that she saw yeaterday – the blood, and the wolf – keep flashing across her mind. And she doesn't know what to do. It's time to wake, time to sweep and dust and clean. Her skin itches, prickles, with the need to do something, to move, but she mustn't disobey – <em>stupid girl, what did I tell you? <em>– can't disobey.

She heaves herself off of the bed – it's so big, and she keeps sinking down into it – and moves around the room – _your room, Orana – _and finds it clean, completely, entirely clean, in every way and what in the Maker's name will she do when she is here – what if there is nothing, nothing at all for her –what if they make her leave –

She staggers over to the window, pushing open the glass and breathing in slow, heady gasps. The morning air is thick, cleaner than Minrathous, and the spots of her vision slowly dissipate until she is faced with the sight of the empty streets, the faded colours of merchant stalls, and –

And the wolf. Resting behind one of the marble pillars, head bowed, as still as if he too were made of stone. Orana is caught, between warring fear and understanding. The wolf is like her, like the mouse. They don't belong here, in these beautiful buildings, with the beautiful people who glitter like gold. They are nothing, _nothing_, and they both know it.

As she watches, a decision seems to possess the wolf; he stalks towards the front door of the hawke's home, face set. But as he approaches the threshold his expression falls – his eyes clench shut, his hand – raised to knock – fists, shaking with something repressed as it holds in the air.

Orana barely stops herself from letting out a scream as the wolf flares blue, bathing the court in an ethereal, ungodly light, before swinging his fist around and slamming it against his own head. Once again he is still, but then he slowly straightens, face buried in his hands. He doesn't look back as he walks away.

_Homo homini lupus._

* * *

><p>'The Fenris was here.' Orana whispers, the breakfast tray rattling in her hands. It was the small man, the Bodhan, whom she told about the wolf. For a moment he had paused, stumbled over his reply. <em>Mistress Hawke – Mistress Amell – will need to know. <em>Orana had insisted, begged the dwarf to let her take breakfast up to the Hawke, despite Mistress Amell insisting that she sleep in and heal. Orana had wanted to explain fully, wanted to show that she was not spoiled, could still work.

Mistress Amell nods, still stroking the hair of the sleeping Mistress Hawke. Orana had been afraid when she had knocked on the hawke's door, and the other woman had answered, but now she stands watching mother and daughter. Mama used to do that for her, Orana remembers. When she thinks of her, she smells oranges and dirt. But then the smell is blood and there are no more hands to brush her hair back. 'I know, Orana. I saw him leave,' mistress Amell mutters, her brow pinched.

Orana doesn't want to be rude, as she places the tray – rattling harder than ever – down on the side. Doesn't want to presume. But what if mistress doesn't know? Should she say, should she not – 'He came two, mistress,' Orana blurts out. Words slurring together. 'Many minutes ago. He wait, outside door. Seemed angry. Or sad. Then he go.'

Mistress Amell raises her head. Looks right at her. Orana doesn't understand the expressions on her face and it makes her knees knock together. She begins to bend towards the ground, but suddenly the mistress is moving, shifting the head on her lap and coming to stand in front of Orana, who drops her head and tries not to cry when fingers curl around her cheek.

'Orana.' Mistress Amell's voice is soft. Not angry. Orana glances up. Not angry at all. Sad. So, so sad. But solid, like a stone. 'Orana, mistress Hawke must not know.'

'I no tell her?' Orana whispers. She doesn't want to anger mistress, doesn't want her to disobey – _as I command, you little whore –_ not when she has been so kind, so sweet.

Mistress Amell nods slightly and goes back to her daughter. Orana misses her soft touch, wants to be like mistress Hawke, asleep and protected – _my little moon – _by a mother. Mistress continues to speak, strained, broken words that Orana cannot fully understand, but it is clear what she means. The hawke must be happy. The wolf has hurt her, torn her down from the sky onto the harsh, unforgiving ground.

It cannot happen again.

She may be the mouse to those far stronger, but Orana is also a moon, Papa's moon, and the moon watches all from the shadows. A hawke and a wolf are enemies. The wolf knows only the dark, hidden borders of a forest; the hawke flies in an endless sky, the sun burning seemingly in reach. The two can fight, and scratch but cannot understand one another.

How could you ever love what you hate?

* * *

><p><strong>I wanted to play with Orana as a character a little; I like the idea of her not being able to fully understand Common, seeing the world, and especially Hawke's place in it, almost like a storybook. Also, credit to Platus for the quote 'homo homini lupus [est]', which loosely translates as 'man is man's wolf'. Hope you enjoyed it!<strong>

**Thanks once again to all the people who favourite, follow or take the time to review. Next update should hopefully be a little quicker – and either from Donnic, or something a little different. We shall see! **


	11. Gamlen

**Disclaimer: Bioware owns all**

**Six conversations, set at the beginning and the end of each of the acts, with **_**that**_** special family member (we all have one like him). Warning for a fair bit of language in this one-shot. Also some sneaky quoting of Horace.**

* * *

><p>'Have you heard about the bloody knife ear who's squatting in Hightown?' Gamlen demands, shoving at his niece's chair to get her attention.<p>

'I have indeed uncle,' Hawke replies, voice weary and mocking as she does not look up from the book she is reading. 'Shocking no? They'll be letting slavers move in next.'

'Shut your mouth! You don't know anything, _girl_,' Gamlen barks out in reply, taking a savage bite from a block of cheese he has just found in the lower reaches of the larder. He does his best not to immediately wretch it back up, chewing determinedly. Leandra, sitting at the dinner table, shoots him a reproachful look, but says nothing and continues trying to patch Carver's socks back into recognisable shape.

'All I know,' Hawke murmurs, turning a page with a flick of her finger. 'Is that – somehow – the former occupants are gone, vanished. And if someone _happens _to be living in there at this moment in time, well. They'll probably get by just fine, if they're lucky enough to have the assistance of a soon to be Captain of the Guard, and a lovable Fereldan apostate.' She stops talking briefly, and then jerks her shoulder in a contemplative gesture. 'Magical fisting also helps.'

It's too much for Leandra, who gives up on the socks to cast an exasperated gaze at her daughter. 'Dear, is this really the company you want to keep?'

Hawke rolls her eyes and finally turns away from her book, to glare at her mother and uncle over her shoulder. 'Mother. He's hardly going to take me dancing, or compliment me on the _lovely _ruffles of my dress. But yesterday he cleaved clean off the head of a bandit who snuck up behind me, and I know which I think is more important.'

A smug look, and Hawke is gone, breezing out into the Lowtown twilight, heading for the Hanged Man as ever, and leaving her mother bristling. Gamlen snorts out a laugh at her expression.

'She'll give you trouble that one. Girl thinks she knows everything, and is as feral as a cat.' Gamlen brandishes the block of cheese at his sister, still trying to chew through the rubbery substance. 'She's too much like you, clearing off whenever she feels like it. Watch out or she'll come home one day with a belly full of knife ear.'

The reply is swift and vicious. 'Oh shut up Gamlen!'

xxx

When the knock sounds, for one moment – one stupid, _stupid_ moment – he thinks they're back. He drags himself out of his chair and stumbles towards the door, wrenching it open, throwing it back.

To reveal the wary eyes of a bloody knife ear. The one that hangs around with Hawke, silent as a shadow but as obvious as a mabari. Gamlen's seen him several times before – leaning up outside his house, waiting for the girl. He looks even more ridiculous up close.

Gamlen grunts out his displeasure , digging in his pocket for the spindleweed splint he promised his sister he wouldn't have tonight. 'What the fuck do you want?' His fingers are trembling, and he can barely light the damn thing, having to draw it close to his face.

The elf's face is cast in shadow, hardening the lines of his features. _Like granite, _Gamlen thinks to himself, inhaling soft, red smoke. 'I did not mean to disturb,' the elf finally says. Gamlen gets the distinct impression this is a lie, and he doesn't really give a bloody fig. 'I was merely stopping by with the hope of speaking to Hawke. Is she in?'

_Hawke, always bloody Hawke and her shitting problems and her shitting templars and her shitting little smile – _ 'She's gone, you daft elf. Left this morning. Her and her bloody mother, off to be the bleeding aristocracy in their fancy Hightown manor.' The gin slurs his words, makes them hang, lonely, in the empty air. 'And the rest of us are left to rot in this shithole.'

The knife ear looks at him with something like disgust and murmurs, 'I apologize. I will leave you to your drinking then.' He turns away, beginning to jog down his porch steps.

Something in Gamlen uncurls, something hot and angry – _and afraid _– and he's lurched half way down his steps before he even thinks about it. 'You know, you act all high and mighty, Knife ears, panting after my niece with that fancy armour of yours, and the pisshole of a manor you're squatting in. But you're no better than me, not really. You might live in Hightown, but you don't belong there.' Gamlen stops to let out a rattling cough; before him the knife ears refuses to face him, but his entire body seems rooted to the ground. Gamlen creeps closer to him, voice lowering. 'Everyone knows it. You're filth, _scum_, just like me, and no matter how much we try we'll never fit in with those people. We are nothing.'

It's enough for the elf to spin round, nostrils flared, eyes black. He seems on the verge of saying something – suddenly flaring blue in a way that makes Gamlen stagger back into a pile of abandoned crate – but stops himself, taking a long, steady breath. 'You are Hawke's family, and she is having a difficult enough time after her brother became a Warden. For her sake, stow your tongue or I will rip it out for you. I am _nothing_ like you and you'll do well to remember that,' he finishes, face twisted in a snarl.

Gamlen laughs and laughs and laughs, until it sounds like choking, because really what else is there to do? 'No, you're not like me. You're _worse_. Because I know it's over. I've embraced this hell!' He throws out his arms as his voice rises suddenly, echoing around the shadows of the slums. 'But you – you're still dreaming, you pathetic little prick.' The words are coming out breathy, rushed, and even in his bitter, dizzy state, an absent part of Gamlen's mind knows that this is cruel. 'You think you've got a hold of my girl, my Hawke. And you're going to spend half your life fawning over like a love-sick boy before you realise that today was the day that you lost her, to jewels and coats and fancy parties.'

The elf's face has become something ugly now, something rageful, and hateful, and desperate. 'Hawke was never mine to lose!' he sneers.

'And now she never will be!' Gamlen cackles as the elf turns to leave. His words seem to lose themselves in the shadows of the night, so he shouts, louder, deeper at the treating figure. 'She's going to break your heart, you little prick. Leave her while you can!'

And when the elf is gone, Gamlen stands alone in the dark. He feels drained, weary in a way he can't explain. But he understands the world – he knows that being alone is how he is meant to be – how everyone is meant to be. The knife ear needed to hear it. Needed to know.

_We are but dust and shadow._

* * *

><p>It seems they've had this argument a hundred times before times before, and he has a bloody hell of a headache from the beating a couple of Dog Lords gave him last night. Her words ring like bells between his ears, relentless and tinny.<p>

'Gamlen, this dump isn't safe. Why don't you just come and stay with us in Hightown?' Hawke demands from her position in front of the door. 'It's warm - you'd have you own room –'

'I will not accept charity!' Gamlen barks out, before winching away from his own shout and burying his face in a twist of blankets in his armchair.

Hawke throws her hands up in exasperation, an irritated growl working its way out of her throat. 'By the Maker, it's like Carver never left! Stop feeling so sorry for yourself and think sensibly for just _once _in your life. What on earth do you have to still be proud about?'

'I won't be like your elf, trying to live something I'm not,' Gamlen mutters, face still buried.

'My el – 'Hawke stops abruptly.

Gamlen's head shoots, mouth hanging open. _She just stuttered. She just bleeding _stuttered. _The girl's actually stupid enough to fall for a knife ears. _He scrubs at his eyes with a bloodied hand. _Maker, it'll all end in tears. _

His niece recovers herself, but too late, rhythm of speech lost. 'My – my personal life is none of your business,' she finally gets out, weakly.

And Gamlen sees an opportunity. 'Sure you want me in that big, fancy house of yours? Sure you want me taking up space, getting in the way of your life?' he mocks. Hawke's mouth thins out, and she grips her staff a little tighter. _A little more. _Gamlen thinks_. Push her a little more, and she'll be gone forever. _'Won't you be too busy fucking that knife ears of yours?

She jerks forward, and for one moment Gamlen thinks she is going to hit him. 'I am giving you one. Last. Chance,' she hisses, teeth gritted. 'Because Mother worries about you, and I've sworn to her that I will keep you safe. I have no intention of letting her down, regardless of how bloody stubborn you are.'

Gamlen has spent years pushing her away, because letting her close is another just another way he can be hurt. But it's clearly gone wrong, because her words sting, and he is suddenly back in the Hawke estate, wiping down his father's cold, clammy face, staring into his grey, dimming eyes and hearing only _Leandra, _a reverence that echoes long after he passes on.

Angry is safe – angry is easy – so Gamlen lets him fill him up, ignoring the lump in his chest as he slumps back into his chair. He closes his eyes. 'Fuck off back to Hightown, princess. Your handler and your wolf are waiting for you.'

Only when the door slams shut does Gamlen open his eyes again. The silence greets him like an old friend.

xxx

Knife ears is on his porch. Again.

'Whole of Kirwall's celebrating, and you're sitting outside of my shitting house,' Gamlen calls out, walking up to stand beside the elf. He looks out over the smoky haze of the slums, with the fires slowly being tamed and the hoards of people, weeping or cheering.

'Maybe I like it,' knife ears replies, voice petulant, eyes hard.

'Nobody likes Lowtown,' Gamlen snorts, slumping down beside his unexpected, and unwanted, guest. 'They just learn to put up with it.' He takes a deep gulp from his gin bottle and shakes his head against the burn slipping down his throat.

Nothing is said for a while – they merely sit in the thick Kirkwall night, occasionally brushing the ash that rains down on them away. Eventually, minutes – hours? – later, a gaggle of youths move through labyrinth of houses, singly hoarsely and half carrying one another. Watching them with hot eyes, something twists in the elf's face and he bites out a hard curse in Tevinter.

Gamlen smiles weakly at the word – it sounds vile – scratching at his neck. 'Don't be too hard on them, you grumpy sod. They're just happy to be alive. She's only their hero – not someone who swears and laughs and dances. And they haven't seen her in that Darktown bed, half beaten to death. They don't know what that's like.'

The elf slowly turns to face him, an eyebrow arched. 'What?' Gamlen yelps, feeling flushed. 'She's my bloody niece, you bloody bastard, don't be so surprised that I care.' _More gin, definitely more gin. _His mouth is on fire when he's finally satisfied, and he inclines the bottle to his guest. Seeing that eyebrow arch impossibly higher makes his temper spark, and without even thinking he shoves the bottle into the elf's hard armour. 'Oh stop looking at me like that. I'm alive and feeling generous. Make the most of it and drink the ruddy gin, you bleeding idiot.'

He thinks the elf may be laughing at him slightly, but the world is starting to spin, in ungraceful stops and starts. He has to lie back against the blackened Lowtown floor, watching the distant stars try in vain to peek their way through Kirkwall's ceiling of smoke.

The blurring figure next to him suddenly begins spluttering. 'This is absolutely repugnant,' the knife ear coughs, spitting once, then twice, and thrusting the bottle back into Gamlen's hands. '

'Well _I _like it,' Gamlen drawls, drinking once more. He knows it's a mistake – his vision keeps flickering at the corners – and that he'll feel it in the morning, but he needs it. _Needs to be free of the image of that medical bed, the smell of blood,_ _that shitting smile all broken – _

The words spring from his mouth before he really thinks of them. 'You never listened to the advice I gave you, did you?'

His visitor stiffens and shrinks away from him. 'I think advice may be too strong a word for what you said,' the elf snaps back, before falling silent. When he next speaks, it is little more than a whisper, and Gamlen will wonder if he imagined in. 'Actually, I believe it was I who broke her heart.'

Gamlen shakes his head, then immediately represses the urge to vomit. 'You know, I don't think I've ever met two people so determined to be unhappy,' he says softly.

'We _will _be happy,' the elf next to him insists. 'But right now, someone is standing in our way. And when I've ripped his heart from his chest – then it'll…it'll be right. It'll be fixed.'

Such naïve conviction.

'There's only one person standing in your way, you prat.' Gamlen sighs, flinging an arm across his face. The colours of the night sky are starting to swirl, and the weight of his arm across his forehead tempers the pain there. 'Take it from me. You can spend your entire life throwing around blame, pointing fingers. But I'll tell you something now,' Gamlen peeks open an eye, staring down his stoic guest. 'The only way you can come to terms with stuff that's happened – the only way you can be happy – is if you stop brooding and just do what needs to be done. And I'd do it sharpish, knife ears, because one day you might find yourself standing in the ruins of a great home, utterly, utterly alone, and with no idea how to get back all those things you never though you needed.'

_Quite the speech Gamlen. Well done. _He closes his eyes again, exhausted.

The elf is quiet beside him for some time. Gamlen thinks he can almost hear him turning the ideas over in his mind. In the end all he offers is the derisive reply 'Are you saying we're alike, again?'

Eyes still closed, Gamlen opens his mouth in a gummy smile. 'It's like looking in a mirror!'

'A cracked, filthy excuse of a mirror, perhaps.'

Gamlen frowns for a few moments, then chuckles, a disused little noise he forgot he could make. 'Knife ears – you made a joke!' The laugh keeps slipping out of him, unstoppable, cathartic, and he can fill his whole chest lifting. 'You know what, knife ears? I think you're actually alright.'

* * *

><p>'Is that a new letter from Charade?'<p>

Gamlen half jumps out of his skin as he turns around to find Hawke, sitting crossed legged in one of his open windows. _Girl moves like a bleeding cat. She needs a bell or something, _he thinks, irritation prickling under his skin. But a good look at her leaves him cold. She seems skinner than normal, the bones of her wrists protruding slightly. Her hair's tied back, but it's limp, curling over her shoulders in exhaustion.

She doesn't look like a Champion. She doesn't even look like that infuriating little spitfire who used to torture him in his own home. She just looks like a very tired young woman, and Gamlen suddenly feels the ridiculous urge to offer her something to eat. The cupboard's bare of course, and she'd never accept, but the ridiculous sentiment is still there and he has to jerk his head to dispel it.

'Keep your nose out of my business, girl. And yes – it is,' he says, seeking a distraction. He takes the time to neatly tuck his daughter's letter into his breast pocket, before turning around, arms crossed. 'What are you doing here?'

Hawke smiles at him – something which may have once been exasperated, but has now faded into begrudging affection. 'Just wanted to check up on you, old man,' she says simply, slipping off of the window sill and cracking the stiff muscles of her arms. 'I was in Lowtown, and I thought I'd pop in and make sure you've been handling…everything all right.'

'I am,' Gamlen grounds out, voice gruff. He tries to cough and clear it, but the staccato noise bounces obnoxiously around the room.

Hawke appears to be grinding her staff into the wooden floor, knuckles flexing white around the stained wood. 'That's good to know. I'm glad you've finally got someone who's…yours. 'Her awkwardness is acute now – leg fidgeting, her gaze following the wooden panels of the shack. 'So, listen –'

'I know.' Gamlen replies quickly, alarmed at the turn this has taken. Hawke doesn't need to say it. He doesn't think he can hear it.

She lets out a half laugh, tension lifting from her shoulders. 'Alright. Alright, then, I'll stop. I'll leave you alone, then…uncle.'

A half wave and she is already moving towards the door. And Gamlen cannot help but think of the hollow ring in that laugh – as if that old, smug defeat of hers has ebbed away.

He needs to say something, _anything_, he knows. Needs to stop hiding these awkward, stinging feelings, because there is a young girl now who needs him to say these things, more than ever now that her mother is gone.

And he's not sure if that young girl is his daughter – or Hawke.

_Andraste's tits. _'He really cares about you, you know,' Gamlen calls out to her stooped back, his shout wavering slightly in indecision. There's no need to say who _he_ is. They both know. To pretend otherwise would be insulting. 'He just – needs to find the words.'

Hawke pauses in the doorway for a few seconds, a hand curved into the woodwork. 'I know,' she says, with something – perhaps a smile – in her voice. And then she is gone.

xxx

There's a pounding at the door and Gamlen approaches slowly, crouched and with a harpoon he nicked from the Docks in his hands. Looters have already tried to get in – twice – and Andraste's tits if he'll let them. 'Get the fuck off of my porch, or I'll split you in two!' he shouts out, thrusting the weapon forward.

'Let me in. Now.'

Even through the wood he recognises the voice immediately (as well as the tone that leaves nothing open for negotiation). Gamlen unbolts the door, tentatively peeking around to see the elf – charred, bedraggled and undeniably _pissed off. _

'You are coming with me,' he says, so flatly that Gamlen almost doesn't understand, until a hand shoots through the gap in the door and seizes his collar.

'Get off of me, you blighted bastard!' Gamlen protests, trying to wrestle out of the hold, but it's all in vain, and he is physically dragged from his house and into the battle for Kirkwall's soul.

The elf's already managed to pull him – and the harpoon – half way down the steps outside of the house by the time Gamlen finishes his first round of cursing. 'We're leaving the city. Now. Hawke's gone to get Orana, I've been sent to get you. So move,' the elf growls as a reply, not bothering to glance back. His grip is a vice.

Luck comes when the cheap fabric of Gamlen's shirt tears. It sends him sprawling on his back, but it's enough for him to scuttle back before the elf whirls back to face him. For a moment they simply glare at one another, as the madness blazes on around them. An impasse.

'She insisted that I bring you,' Knife ears eventually murmurs, tone soft but threat heavy. Somewhere behind him an explosion goes off, a great bloom of fire arching up into the purple sky. Gamlen scrambles back, falling, but the elf does not move as the screams echo around him.

Gamlen throws his hands up, inching further away. 'Listen – listen! The girl told me a few weeks ago that she thought a storm was coming. So I shipped my daug–' it's still so hard to say – 'Charade, off to Cumberland. I'm getting the last of my things and getting the hell out of Kirkwall. But not with you lot. Not with you.' The elf appears to be listening, so Gamlen affords himself a slow inhalation before he continues on.

'I'm not like you – I can't throw around a sword, or shoot bleeding lightening out of my bleeding hands. I'm ordinary. And I'd just slow you down, make you weak. And you'd just make me a target. I want to be with my daughter, knife ear – and we can have a chance at a normal life. Don't take that from us.'

'Hawke wants you,' the elf repeats, as if it's the bloody chant.

'I _KNOW!_' Gamlen stresses, clambering to his feet and fighting the intense need to stamp in indignation. 'But Hawke can't always get what she wants, can she?'

That triggers something – a fracturing, a sunburst in the elf's eyes. 'No,' he mouths, seeming to forget Gamlen entirely, gazing at something imagined. 'No, she cannot.'

He snaps back quite quickly, anger veiling him instantly. 'Fine. Understand this. I am about to tell Hawke that when I entered your house, you had already left to join your daughter in Cumberland. If you are ever caught, have the common decency to kill yourself, because I will _not _have you used as leverage over her.' The elf is glowing – something Gamlen has learnt over the years means everybody ought to start running – faintly as he stares him down. 'Run little man, and do your best not to make things worse for her.'

'You concern is touching,' Gamlen sneers, securing his grip on the harpoon. 'Now it's my turn to talk.' He actually has the gall to wave the weapon at the elf, whose eyes narrow. 'Don't you dare leave her side, knife ears. Keep her safe, or I swear templars will be the least of your concerns. I know I can't do shit myself, but I'll find a way, I swear on the Maker.'

The elf pauses, and for a moment Gamlen wonders if he's about to be gutted. But then the unthinkable happens –

A hand is offered.

Gamlen tries to recall the last time somebody shook his hand. The last time someone extended to him a expression of respect, of trust. It's too distant for him to remember clearly. And as they shake – as he feels the harsh edges of the elf's gauntlet, the raised lines of his skin, it takes so long for the choked words – _goodbye Kirkwall; Leandra; Hawke; good luck…Fenris _– to pass his lips, that his final wishes fall into the gutter of the burning Lowtown streets, as the elf disappears into the chaos.

_We are but dust and shadow._

* * *

><p><strong>I have quite mixed feelings towards Gamlen as a character, which I suppose is a testament to how realistic he seems. And my goodness would he not stop talking! Donnic's coming soon (I promise!) but for someone so mild mannered, he's putting up one heck of a fight! I'm trying to get through all the suggestions people have made, with a couple of my own, so I hope you're enjoying them thus far!<strong>


	12. Cameos

**Series of little one-shots in Act 3 strung together with a wider theme. Some familiar faces, I'm sure, and I hope I do them justice. **

_Darkling I listen; and, for many a time _

_I have been half in love with easeful Death, _

_Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, _

_To take into the air my quiet breath; _

_Now more than ever seems it rich to die, _

_To cease upon the midnight with no pain, _

_While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad _

_In such an ecstasy! _

_Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— _

_To thy high requiem become a sod._

_~ Ode to a Nightingale; _Keats

* * *

><p>When he sees her, he slips.<p>

'I must admit, I was waiting for an assault by the Crows, not the mighty Amell.'

He doesn't even realise his mistake until she quirks an eyebrow and says, 'It's been a while since anyone called me that – it's Hawke, actually.'

And it jerks Zevran away from the blurred image of a dirty camp, the faint smell of wood burning and the chill of Fereldan nights – it's all gone, immediately, and he's back in the dark and damp cave, another Amell standing before him, smirking.

An assassin's greatest talent is his awareness, his ability to use his senses and manipulate those of his target. It's a shocking revelation that even he can be lost in his memories, the sentimentality he attempts to bury. That he has a weakness, and all the laughter and seduction in the world is naught but a pale shield.

When she starts talking, it's easier to separate the lines between the past and the present. Because Amell was never like this - whenever Zevran flirted she blushed and panicked, awkwardly ending the conversation and shuffling off to talk with someone else. In all honesty, her stammered rejections gave him endless amounts of pleasure – the great Zevran, reduced to little more than juvenile prodding just to see the heat pool across her cheeks, the shock widening her still eyes.

Yet here, now, there is a response, a slight spark in Hawke's expression, the tilt of her hips, a low chuckle. It's the wrong laugh, for certain. Amell had the most beautiful laugh – light, as if she were surprised to be making it; like a little bird peering out at the world from the lofty heights of her nest, too afraid to fly alone and see all that was distant from her.

Of course, she never laughed for him. Amell, hiding in those tree tops, was just close enough that Zevran could delude himself into outstretching his fingers to try and reach her. But she was always too far away.

Hawke is different. Hawke is a bird of prey, plummeting to the earth in a blaze of speed, wanting to provoke, to engage with the exotic; wanting to battle and triumph. So Zevran suggests, makes the offer, even though he is aware this is a ridiculous attempt to lay old demons to rest. That it's not Hawke, majestic as she is, who he wants. In some ways, it's almost relief when a harsh, strained voice bites out, 'That depends. How much do you want to test that luck of yours?'

Zevran looks at him – the other elf. With his hard eyes and stiff mouth. With the swirling patterns in his skin, and the stink of love about him. But what reason does he have for anger? He has the key to the bird cage, while the assassin is once again left pressed up against the bars.

Hawke winks at Zevran as she leaves, before dancing her way over to her elf and pulling at his hand. Eventually he gives up his temper and wraps his arm around her, as they disappear up and over the hill. Zevran watches them for some time, the faint silhouettes that fade away into the creeping night.

Standing alone and exposed, the cold wind pulling at his hair, somewhere in Zevran's chest he feels the stirrings of dark amusement. He cannot help the smile that splits his face – a sad, disconnected little smile. Because _she_ had had a shadow too – a golden shadow, who had always stopped him from getting too close.

xxx

'Hello there. You look a little lost – do you require some assistance?'

The elf starts and whirls around, before frowning slightly when he discovers that he appears to be alone. Leliana giggles to herself, watching him touch the hilt of his greatsword. It's probably dangerous to poke the bear – or rather the wolf, in this instance – but she's heard rumours about the strange, painted elf who follows after the Champion, and they barely had the chance to speak when she first met him. 'I'm here!' she finally calls out, as his confusion appears to spike.

The elf, Fenris, glances up and his bemusement flowers into a fully fledged scowl. 'What do you want?' he asks, flatly. 'Don't you have better things to do with your time than bother me – putting down a mage rebellion, for instance?'

Leliana smiles at him, before dropping down from the courtyard wall of Chateau Haine. 'Not at this precise moment,' she replies cheerfully, brushing the dust off of her skirts.

'As I recall, it was Hawke and I who did all the heavy lifting last time. Perhaps you are late once more and ought to leave early. Immediately,' the elf mutters, scratching a pattern into the estate walls with his armoured fingers.

_A wolf indeed! _Leliana laughs to herself. _Snarling and howling, trying to hide the fact that he feels a little lost without his pack. '_You don't much care for these social gatherings do you?' she wonders aloud, twirling her fan between her fingers.

His upper lip curls in distaste. 'They are all too…Orlesian for my tastes,' he adds, gaze on her pointed.

Leliana chooses to ignore that, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear and humming to herself. 'And yet, the only thing Kirkwall's nobility can speak of is a painted elf who accompanies the Champion to all of their homes.' Leliana chuckles softly, as the elf's head whips her away, nostrils flared in hostility and something a little like fear. 'Oh don't look so surprised. You must have known you were causing a scandal,' she reprimands lightly, brandishing the fan in his direction.

His lip curls, mocking, but Leliana doesn't miss the tightening around his shoulders, the faint distress of his stance. 'I didn't realise that we were the most recent scandal. Perhaps you ought to remind her of the need to cast me aside?' he finally mutters, grinding his foot into the courtyard dirt.

'_No._'

It rips out of her, scratching at her throat in its sudden, vicious panic. The painted elf shifts back slightly, somewhat affronted, but he is only clinging to the outskirts of Leliana's awareness. Instead, a biting whisper rattles through her mind – _You should have said something six years ago – _and she has to shake to disperse the sound of heavy footfalls in Eamon's hallway, the sight of two Wardens bowed in defeat. _He had no idea what he was sacrificing. No idea how he felt, how she felt. And you said _nothing.

It takes a few deep breathes for her to clear her murky memories, to ignore those words – _we…need to talk _– and return her focus to the elf before her, whose confusion has once again bowed to frustration. 'Nobility is such a weak rebuttal against love,' she murmurs, voice weaker than she would like and a stammer hanging in the air. 'Would you be so kind as to listen to a bard's tale, serah?'

He shakes his head; not in refusal, but exasperation, Leliana thinks. 'What sort of Chantry agent are you?'

Leliana laughs, but it's a different laugh, a smaller laugh, one worn and aged. 'I am the Hand of the Divine. I am also a woman, a lover, a friend. Hard as it may be for you to believe, I can be all of these things – and a bard – at the same time. So if you would grant me the honour of listening to my tale, I would be immensely grateful.'

He says nothing, only continues to look at her with those wide, green eyes which seem to reflect back fragments of the world in strange sunbursts. He's most likely at odds with her erratic behaviour, but his silence is all the invitation she needs. So Leliana begins, speaking so softly her words catch in the summer breeze. 'I once travelled with a woman much like your Hawke. Not quite as assertive though –' Fenris snorts at that. 'She was far more pensive. In truth, a nightingale– afraid of her own strength, afraid of the shadows. But a symbol to all who knew her, with her sad eyes and sad fate.'

A pause, slow, long, because this is hard. And Leliana feels herself sliding into the words of the stories she tells children, because metaphors are cold and distant – they do not feel, do not bleed, and she does not hurt when they fade away. 'This young nightingale knew little of the world,' she continues, unable to look at him directly, but rather turning her face to the honest blue of the sky. 'But the nightingale had a companion, willing to travel with her to all the corners of Thedas. A lion, glorious and golden. So strong, where the nightingale was fragile. Together, they were powerful, unbreakable, and they did many great things together. Always for others, never for themselves. Both selfless to a fault…' her words trail away and curl in on themselves, withered.

When she finally manages to move her lips once more, her pace quickens, because to dwell would break the thread of the story; and Leliana knows that without the story, the control it brings, she is naught. 'But the lion was meant for noble things, and soon his ears were filled with the words of snakes – words like duty, and status, and obligation, and blood. So he turned the little nightingale away, because he believed it was the right thing to do. Because he believed that there were more important things than staying together.

'And that little nightingale – _I thought you were in love with me – _'she…she ended up living her life in perpetual night, only singing to the stars. She never saw the dawn. And it became apparent…quite apparent to everyone that the lion could have all the strength and the honour in the world, but it meant very little without his little nightingale. And now he spends his nights in a fitful trance between this world and the Fade, endlessly, endlessly listening for her song.'

The last sounds are little more than a whisper; the bard has told her story, and so she tilts her head forward to follow the stream of her own words. Their path is broken when the elf finally speaks, his voice surprisingly gentle. 'You and this…this nightingale. You are close?'

Leliana shuts her eyes, because the sting is too sharp, and there are some stories she simply refuses to relive. 'We were.'

xxx

He's heard that she's like her cousin. It still doesn't prepare him.

It's not just the likeness – although he's not going to deny that it's not hard to see a ghost, an almost her before him, with the same eyes, the same hair colour, the same high cheekbones and tilt of her mouth. Because it _is_ hard, excruciatingly so, and he has to bury part of his gauntlet into his leg to stop from saying _something_.

But more difficult, more painful, is not that this shadow is standing before him, talking, but _how _she is doing it. How strange, he thinks, watching her drum a pattern onto her staff, that two people who have never met should have such similar mannerisms. Standing one foot on top of the other, tipping their head when listening, pinching at the bridge of their nose when stressed.

It's not a perfect fantasy – of course not. She's more sarcastic than Solana ever was, and her nose is different. When she speaks you can hear her Fereldan heritage coming through, but Solana always had the strange hybrid accent that stemmed from years in the Tower, listening to mages gathered from across Thedas. Her hair is shorter too, unlike the long strands he used to brush through years ago in a dirty tent on the hard ground. And the woman in front of him has slightly freckled skin, from years of working outside. Solana's skin was white, shockingly so, having spent most of her life without the sun; it burnt easily and Wynne was always having to heal the blisters.

Still, all these flaws do not stop him from tripping up, from laughing out 'Swooping is bad' and glancing up at her face, waiting for…something. But there's no recognition, no budding warmth there, and it's enough that he needs to drag his hands wearily over his face to hide from his own ridiculous, burning disappointment.

No, she's not a perfect fantasy. But she's just close enough that Alistair can't stand the indifference in her eyes.

The almost Solana seems to realise there is something wrong with him, ducking her head to peer into his face when he moves to leave. He cannot blame her. He's never been a good liar and he cannot pretend that he's happy to see her, that being a king is something he loves and that he can save the world. He is trying – and failing – to be perfect, and he most certainly cannot keep up the pretence in front of her.

By the Maker, not when they have the same eyes.

_His soul it splits atop the Tower, then is born again in gold;_

_The grey king he doth remember, the grey lady now of His fold._

_Yet memories are but shallow pools and what great king would cry?_

_So instead his face is of grey stone, for a smile would be a lie._

When he leaves the Viscount's Keep several minutes later, Alistair insists to Tegan that the guard should go on without him. His (sort of) uncle casts him a look between concern and disapproval, but he can't deny a command.

There are some benefits to monarchical power, after all.

He waits for nearly an hour, cast in the shadows. Keeping his breathing, calm, even, as he loses himself in the twisted labyrinth of long forgotten thoughts. He was an idiot, all those years ago. Couldn't read what people were saying unless they spelt it out to him. There are some dark nights when he thinks back to the witch's cutting words, and he understands what she was saying to him. Can see all his weaknesses, his foolishness, stretched out before him, with her voice laughing overhead.

He does not sleep those nights. Although he does not sleep most nights.

The boy – and that is all that he was – has aged, staggeringly so, to the point where he looks in the mirror of a morning and can't find himself in those strange, empty eyes. Sometimes he catches sight of his reflection, robed in all his finery, crown caught in the mess of his hair, and he starts. Cannot believe what he has become. He's no longer a fool, wet behind the ears and believing in the integrity of an oath. Now all he can see are the lies, the omissions, scrawled across people's faces, a litany to their misdeeds and their shame.

So now he is capable of understanding what the Champion and her elf are saying, even when they are silent.

Alistair wonders if it would have been worked out better if he had acted the way Fenris and Hawke do, with coy glances and small twitches of emotion. He wonders if the others would have teased them less, if Eamon would not have pushed them both so hard – if, if, always if. But they were each other's first – and only – love, clueless as to how to shockingly obvious they were. Couldn't stop smiling, couldn't stop touching each other in small, innocent ways – two fingers extended, a head leant against a shoulder, a hand curved around an inner arm. And he cannot regret his inability to hide his feelings, because it is some small comfort that everybody, _everybody_, knows that for the short time they had, he was hers and she was his.

Looking back it all unravels so neatly, so clearly that he can't imagine how he couldn't see it at the time. Of all people, it was Goldana who made him a king, with her sneer and the pot she flung at the door as they left her home. The day he felt the fissures of his faults harden, the day he learnt that he had a voice.

But it was Solana who made him a great king. The realisation up on that bloody tower that her soft tears and insistence on a last embrace were nothing more than a trick, a first and final lie, to leave him sprawled on the ground as she charged the archdemon. That was the day he was encased in ice, untouchable and frozen as the world passed around him. Rooted to the ground, staring up at that sky and knowing he would not be able to join his little bird.

Alistair sucks in a shaky breath, heartbeat thrumming desperately in his neck. He closes his eyes. He cannot afford to consider such things so carefully, not in the middle of busy Hightown. He can't lose himself here, even as he feels something inside of him fracture, pain blossoming from sharp and buried roots.

It's the Champion's laugh that draws him back to the surface, leaving him floundering as his eyes snap open. She is descending the Viscount's steps, arm looped through that of a small Dalish girl as they chat in happy voices.

And following behind them, Fenris, a gentle smile in the warmth of his eyes.

Alistair calls out his name.

Because he has to say something. Because the elf has to realise how important it is to cling on to the moments they have together, like driftwood, before the storm hits and they are tossed apart. Because losing grip is drowning, suffocating.

The elf turns. Alistair crumbles.

'Listen – Fenris. You, you and the Champion, Amell – you're in this for life. There's no end with this girl, no stop off point. No matter how many women they thrust in your face, no matter how many marriages they try to arrange, she is _it. _It's a lifelong commitment, loving an Amell, and no matter how much it hurts, you wouldn't change if for anything.

'They're proud and strong, and convinced they can save the world from itself. You can yell at them until you're hoarse, but they'll refuse to stay back in a fight. And you have to watch them, because if you don't they'll fly off somewhere you can't follow. Somewhere you can't rescue them from, and before you know it they've sacrificed themselves for the greater good. For you. And everyone is happy, and cheering, because they're saved, but you – you'll have lost the only thing you ever wanted to keep, and it will _break_ you.

'It's in their blood – it's who they are. Irrevocably. All you can do is try to keep up, try to run alongside them, because you can't stop their martyrdom, can't stop their burning need to put everyone else before their own happiness. The very best you can hope for is to go out in a blaze of glory with them, to spent your last minutes together. And for the Maker's sake, don't screw that up, because you'll find a life without them in scarcely worth living. You'll curse every minute you wasted, every harsh word you exchanged. In the next decade of your life you'll never feel anything like what a single moment with her was like.

'She is it. She is everything.'

Leliana with tears in her eyes, Wynne's calm questions, Eamon and his anger, and all the jilted doctors and prospective brides in Thedas, and finally, finally, Alistair has chosen to open up to this elf, who he has known for all of an hour. And he has told him everything, every little mistake that he made when he was loved, every regret he holds close like a poisoned barb and every misguided little fantasy he allows himself to drift in.

Alistair closes his eyes, because it's too painful and beautiful, all at once. His soul – it lies exposed. It is exhausting, and crushing, and uplifting, and these emotions are choking him as the low ring of her laugh – something he thought he had forgotten – echoes in his ears –

'Your Majesty?'

It's enough for him to be jarred back into the present, a wild lurch that knocks the air from his lungs in a swift and brutal realization that his warning – his confession, still bloodied and raw – has remained his alone. That try as he might, he can't say them aloud, can't concede that she's somewhere he can't follow. In his mind, her laugh slides into Morrigan's once more.

Alistair has been silent too long. He can see it in the furrowed brows of the elf, the way he is shooting looks at the Champion's retreating figure. Alistair makes to speak, but his throat is thick and he has to swallow back all those unspoken words, those weaknesses, until he is stone once more. 'She's waiting for you,' he finally says. 'Take care of her.'

Then he pushes back into the cool embrace of the Viscount's Keep, without looking back. Because he cannot stand the broken promise of the endless sky.

_Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!_

* * *

><p><strong>Didn't want to deviate too much into a Warden's story, but I do enjoy the idea of the parallels of a pair of cousins, who both change the world, and the fate of their relationships. Ode to a Nightingale, quoted here, is also one of my favourite Romantic poems, with its consideration of mortality. Hope you enjoyed it! Will be back to a solely Fenris-Hawke focus next time. <strong>


	13. Samson

**Disclaimer: Bioware owns all**

**A one-shot towards the end of Act 3 here; warning for some language. Thanks to Merrick Falls for this POV idea – I never would have thought of it! I really do appreciate all the suggestions, and will try to do as many of them as possible. **

* * *

><p>When they bring him in Samson swears under his breath, low and vicious.<p>

Grace twists around immediately to glare at him, so he drops his chin and stares at the flickering shadows being cast on the Wounded Coast sands. He fights to temper the sudden chill settling in his bones, the twitching of his fingers (although that's probably because he hasn't had any dust for the last few hours).

This isn't what he wanted. All Samson had ever hoped for was to see that blonde bitch get what she deserved. And dust, Maker, did he want the dust. The templars of the resistance have been sneaking it to him, shit loads until he began to remember what it felt like to want to run and laugh and fight.

But it's not enough. Maker he never thought he'd ever say it, but all the dust in Thedas is not enough. There's something _wrong_ with these people, something that makes his teeth ache and his heart race. Something about their eyes, which remind him of all the horror stories he heard when he was in the Order. And Grace is insane, truly insane, but everyone else seems blind to it. Even Thrask doesn't notice the scratches that crisscross her arms.

Now, though. Now they've gone too far – declared war, whether the bastards realise it or not.

Samson glances up again, to see the body being dropped to the ground in an undignified heap. He can't stop himself from biting out a second curse, even more vulgar than the first.

On his right a boy leans towards him and – without breaking formation– asks what is wrong. Samson discreetly glances at him from the corner of his eye (looking away from the central fire seems like suicide, because Grace is still surveying them all with dark, shallow eyes). Boy is the right word for him – he's young, barely filling out his Templar armour and with an energy that Samson himself once had before he traded it away for dwarf dust. There's a thin bead of sweat trickling down his forehead.

'Do you have a clue who that is?' Samson whispers, feeling his control slip, his voice rise. He licks his cracked lips. 'Do you have _any_ idea what it means that they've brought him here?'

The boy's head shakes, his armour creaking slightly. Samson doesn't have the stomach to look at the plain terror on his face. Instead all he can see is white hair dirtied with sand, olive skin laced with lyrium and purple bruises.

'We're all fucked.'

xxx

The sun flares a sudden pain in his head – Samson barely has time to blink away the harsh light before Hawke's face, teeth bared, eyes wild, bursts into focus against the burning white.

'Where is he?' she roars, and he is slammed back against a rock. His neck snaps and the pain is excruciating, but he swallows his scream as he is flung onto the ground. A hand is in his hair, holding him down against the earth, and somewhere beyond, somewhere in the white, Samson hears a 'Hawke' – deep and shocked. But he has no time to determine who has spoken, because there's a knife against his throat and all he can think is _shit shit shit_ in an endless stream. Her hand is shaking, and he feels the hard steel nick his skin.

Hawke's voice is low and feral; nothing of her old sympathy remains in those pretty eyes as she snarls, 'I am giving you one chance. You tell me where he is and you tell me _now_ or I will cut off your fucking head and deliver it to the Knight Commander myself.'

'Hawke!' comes the shout again, and this time the Guard Captain swims into focus, brows furrowed and face hard. 'Hawke, for the Maker's sake calm down!'

'Shut up!' Hawke shouts, pressing the knife even deeper into the soft flesh of Samson's neck. With an odd sort of detachment, he is aware of his blood beginning to bubble and flow; that he's pissed himself. But Hawke has become an animal, and it is so awful he can't look away.

The Guard Captain reaches out, clamps a hand on Hawke's shoulder. 'He can't say anything with his throat slit, Hawke. I'm scared too, but you need to try and think.'

Her voice is actually gentle, if firm, and the words seem to hit their mark. Hawke blinks, as if being shaken awake from a dream, and some of the anger in her eyes clears. But it leaves behind a coldness which makes Samson press further into the sand. Hawke jerks the knife deeper – and Samson cannot stop the panicked cry ripped from his throat – just because she can...then pulls back and stands. She sheathes her knife and is still for a moment, eyes clenched shut as she inhales deeply. Then, still not looking at him, she asks in a tone that makes him shiver, 'Where is he?'

Samson realises that this is his one chance, his only bleeding chance to try and get out of this alive. He peers up at Hawke, at her clenched fists and dishevelled hair, and murmurs, 'I just wanted what I was owed, just some dust,' he croaks. 'I left the resistance this morning, tried to get as far away as possible. You have to understand I didn't want this, didn't want them and their bloody war –'

Hawke's boot connects with his ribs and Samson curls in on himself. He coughs – once, twice – and blood sprays on the earth. 'I don't _care_ what you want, you stupid bastard,' Hawke hisses. 'Tell me what I _want_.'

'_Hawke_,' comes the chagrined voice once more, but Hawke appears to be beyond listening, grinding her foot into Samson's shoulder. He cries out again, and the sound echoes around the rocks of the Wounded Coast in frightening dissonance.

'_Tell me_!'

Samson has no more strength to defend the people he fears, to justify his desperation. They can all burn in hell for all he cares. But he cannot speak – his mouth is filling with blood – so instead he only points at the direction he stumbled from.

Hawke is instantly gone, charging up a sand dune and disappearing into the stormy horizon.

xxx

When Samson arrives at the clearing, limping and bringing with him half the Templar Order, it's the Guard Captain who greets them. With the help of the dwarf, Varric, she explains what has occurred, who remains of the resistance and who has surrendered. The ground is scorched and scattered with bodies – Samson remembers Hawke's fury, sparking both burning and icy, and shudders for those stupid enough to challenge her.

It is a while before he even notices the Champion. She sits far away from them all, under an outcrop of rock and beside her elf, obviously keeping him from standing too soon. The distance is great enough that Samson cannot make out any words, only the low buzz of their speaking, but they appear to be arguing; Hawke's face is white with anger, her whole body shaking with an emotion she is powerless to control. The elf is not faring much better, the muscles of his arms chorded, his pupils blown wide.

Their fight ends when Hawke buries the heels of her palms into her eyes and slumps back onto the sand. The elf is still for a moment; then he gingerly sits up and reaches over with long, slim fingers to take back her hands. He bends, as if to kiss them, then hesitates and instead offers her only a weak, uncertain smile. Hawke suddenly lunges at him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. The elf jerks back slightly, surprise written across his features, before slowly pressing his face against her hair.

Samson spits into sand. Sickening, lovesick bastards.

They think they're subtle, think that no one knows. But they're wrong. Samson knew even before they did. They move like clockwork together – always reacting, always responding to the other instinctually, even if their minds are elsewhere. And they're bloody fools to believe that people wouldn't realise and exploit such obvious weakness.

After several moments of stolen peace the elf attempts to stand, legs bending like a young animal, forcing him to loop an arm over Hawke's shoulder. She whispers something in his ear which makes him bark out a laugh and he leans more heavily on her. Slowly they make their way over, and the vulnerability in her face ebbs away into something harsh.

Cullen shrinks back slightly when he sees the tired lines and blood streaks of Hawke's face. In response she only sighs, 'Man up, Cullen – we have a lot to talk about,' transferring the weight of the elf over to the Guard Captain. 'Aveline, Varric, can you take Fenris to Anders please? He's got an injury on his arm I can't heal. And make sure they don't kill each other.'

Finally she turns back to her elf, eyes soft. 'Be careful from now on,' she whispers to him, brushing her lips over his check. The Guard Captain flushes darkly, stretching her head away from them both, before half-carrying her charge away. The dwarf stays behind to clap Hawke once on the back, offering an exhausted smile, then follows after them.

And then it is only Hawke and the templars.

xxx

The sun is beginning to cast an orange pall across the coast when Hawke finally retreats from Cullen. Contrasting with his irritation, her face is one of simple satisfaction. She has spent an hour arguing the case for those who surrendered, now bound in templar chains. There's the templar kid from the night before; Alain, cowering as ever; faces Samson knows and feels nothing for.

Idiots, the lot of them. Idiots who didn't seize their chance and run when they could. They deserve their fate.

Thanks to Hawke, they will survive. That much is true. But fool that she is, the Champion doesn't seem to understand that there are worst things than death. That Meredith will ensure that that is the case. The stupid girl just can't leave well enough alone.

Samson cannot help himself – he half trips in an attempt to block her way as she moves to leave, determined to make her hurt, like she did for him earlier. 'It's your own fault you know,' he slurs out, his bloody mouth distorting his words somewhat. 'Ever since you got off of that boat, you've stuck your nose into every single bloody problem this city has. Of course it's going to bite you in the arse.'

'Back off,' Hawke snaps, nostrils flaring and the grip on her staff tightening. 'I have had to deal with a very, _very _stressful day, and all I need right now is a pathetic, shade of a man to really piss me off. I let you go, Samson – don't make me regret it.'

Samson leers. The desire for her to suffer is more powerful than ever, boiling in his blood, buzzing in his head. Why should she have everything, when thousands have nothing – when _he _has nothing. 'You still don't understand do you? You think that this was it! You think this is just another little task that you've solved and can file away.' He laughs, a moist sound that makes Hawke grit her teeth and his bruised ribs ache. 'Know this. You can do all the 'good' you like, sweetheart, but what you're really doing is dragging everyone in your life deeper and deeper into a mess that has nothing to do with them.'

'Are you threatening me?' It's a dangerous question that sits heavily in the air, made worse by its awful flatness. Samson feels all his muscles tensing, in silent anticipation that Hawke may attack him once more.

'I'm not threatening you, sweetheart,' Samson replies. He's almost as shocked as Hawke to hear the shift in his tone – bitterness blown away by something cruel, something more painful. Pity. 'But I think it's time you realise that your righteousness is toxic to anyone who comes near you.'

Hawke falls back a step, as if she has been struck in the stomach. Her face blanches, then furious pink spots burn her cheeks. 'You don't think I know that?' she says, voice wavering with something close to hysteria. 'You think I've haven't noticed by now that anyone I've ever cared for –'

She stops suddenly, sucking in an uneven breath. In this moment she is only Hawke – vulnerable, exposed, that young girl smuggling on the streets just to stay out of the Gallows' grip. All her emotions straining at the surface at once.

And then the girl is gone, morphed into a Champion– her face is set into a blank mask and she is ethereal, above fear. She storms forward, unyielding, and Samson half trips getting out her way, his need for retribution scattered when confronted with her resolute march. Hawke never looks back at him, but as she climbs the hill and begins to fade from his vision, she calls out, iron ringing in her parting message. 'Spread the word for me, Samson. I will save this city, from itself if I must. But if anyone comes near those I love, I will burn them. And they will die screaming.'

* * *

><p><strong>Ok some liberties with the Best Served Cold plotline here, because Hawke seemed a bit too apathetic when I played through (conversely, I was freaking out). Also, even though Carver is alive in this headcanon, I had Fenris (as the LI) kidnapped – for drama, of course, but also because being able to kidnap a Warden was one of the most ridiculous things ever. I mean can you imagine anyone pulling that off in the Origins camp? xD<strong>

**Also, I reached 100 reviews last chapter – completely amazing! Thank you so, so much to everyone who leaves a review, it honestly means so much for me and my first story. You guys are fantastic!**


	14. Merrill

**Disclaimer: Bioware owns all! **

**Scenes from Act 2 and 3, in a POV that lots of people were eager to see. I've kept a much loved banter in, but have adapted its context slightly. Hope you enjoy it.**

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><p>It bubbles out of her, a little giggle that catches in the wind and dances around them. 'You're in love!'<p>

Fenris' neck cracks audibly as he snaps around to glare at her. 'I am not!' he hisses. He's gone a lovely shade of pink under his brown skin, and he's snarling something awful. In fact he looks a little like the tabby cat who sits outside her house in the alienage. He's especially grumpy, always frightening off the children and batting at Merrill's feet – the cat of course, not Fenris. Merrill wonders if she could cheer Fenris up in the same way, with a piece of string and some fish. She supposes not, quite sadly.

'Everytime she looks away, you stare at Hawke with those sad puppy eyes,' Merrill explains, trying to stop herself from smiling too much. Fenris is still looking at her, and his eye is twitching a little bit. It's the face he makes most of the time around her, but he seems to be doing it less and less recently. Isabela believes this is a good sign.

For a moment he says nothing, shaking his head faintly. Then he growls 'There are no puppy eyes,' and turns around to stare at Hawke once again. She's across the court yard, half bent over a Hightown stall arguing loudly with the owner. Merrill wishes she could speak to people like that. All the shop-keepers in the alienage ignore her.

'It's all right, you know. Even you can be happy once in a while,' Merrill teases. 'It won't kill you. But your face might crack if you smile, so be careful!' she ends, laughing. A small part of her feels silly, but it's a nice sort of silly. When she was part of the clan, the children would tease a boy named Tamlen about the way he followed around his hunting partner Mahariel. He used to blush and shout at them, but they would all laugh about it in the end. Merrill never really spoke with the other children, never really felt that she could. She had books to read, and spells to learn, and as the First they always hushed and grew quiet whenever she went near them. So now there's a strange freedom in being able to poke fun at someone for being so obviously lovesick.

Fenris' shout erupts out of him very suddenly, making her jump. 'I told you, witch, there are _no_ puppy eyes!' And Merrill feels quite ridiculous, wondering if perhaps she got it wrong and if she should just leave these things to Isabela.

Then Fenris mutters, 'And say nothing of your drivel when Hawke is around,' and Merrill smiles to herself, thinking that, just maybe, there is a slight chance that she is right.

xxx

The Hanged Man is busy and noisy, in a way that reminds Merrill of Hahren Paivel's aravel and makes her feel warm. The alienage has been cold and sharp today; she's spent hours staring down the mirror, but as ever it refuses to budge, and it's good to get some fresh air…even if that air smells of sick and ale. She half dances over to their usual table – tripping once or twice over a few stray floorboards – and slides into her usual seat, blinking owlishly when she finds only Isabela and Varric have turned up for their weekly game of Wicked Grace. 'Where's everyone else?'

The little warm feeling in her chest is snuffed out almost immediately when Isabela won't look at her – carving something into the wooden table – and Varric offers only a half hearted smile. 'I'm afraid our merry band of misfits has run into a spot of conflict, Daisy.'

He explains quickly, cleanly. He speaks of a single night – of Anders' rage, and Fenris' absence, and Aveline's weariness and Hawke's shallow, flat voice. And Merrill doesn't think she's ever felt so stupid. She's spent weeks imaging Fenris smiling down at Hawke, what he would like in fancy noble clothing. Maybe even if there would be little children with bright hair and elvhen ears. And Creators, she feels like she is about to cry, and it's the most horrible thing in the world to have to press her palms to her face to try and hold back a sob. 'I'm sorry – I'm just being childish,' she whispers.

But there's an arm around her shoulder; and it's Isabela murmuring, 'Your good heart again, Kitten. Sometimes you can wish all the happy endings in the world for people, but it doesn't mean they'll happen. It just means we all only ever see what we want. What we hope. Not what's real.'

She does her best to stop seeing happy lies. Merrill cannot deny that it is Leandra burning on the funeral pyre, as Hawke stares out at the thundering rain. Merrill cannot deny that there is not a shade of guilt in Petrice's pinched, spiteful face, even when the Qunari arrow splits her chest. Merrill cannot deny that the Viscount's face is caught in a perpetual scream as it pools blood at her feet, his once bright blue eyes shallow, dimmed. And when Hawke agrees to face the Arishok Merrill doesn't believe Varric when he whispers that she will be fine.

But try as she might, Merrill can't stop seeing the way Fenris looks at Hawke.

xxx

When Merrill pushes into the room, Hawke is stretched out in a plush loveseat, feet dangling off of the end. There's an open book resting over her face; it slumps to the floor as Hawke sits up and blinks at her. 'Merill?'

'Aneth ara, lethallan!' she replies cheerfully, placing her bowl of spiced berries on the table. 'I've brought something for us to share!' She picks up a blueberry and pops it into her mouth.

'That's great Merrill,' Hawke replies, rubbing at her head before rolling to her feet. She approaches the bowl almost cautiously and Merrill giggles to herself. 'Um…why did you bring these?'

'Because the cinnamon tastes lovely with the Dalish wine,' Merrill announces, pulling the bottle from her pack and placing it next to the berries. 'And you can't have a celebration without something to drink, or at least that's what Isabela says. I guess that explains why Anders is always so grumpy. But then again, Fenris drinks a lot and he's not ever very happy – '

'Why,' Hawke interjects, voice a little weak, 'are we celebrating?'

'Just a Dalish holiday,' Merill says absently, not looking a Hawke and occupying herself by placing a wreath on the mabari. The hound looks up at her balefully.

'Er...don't take this the wrong way, Merrill, but I know shit all about Dalish festivals,' Hawke replies. 'Wouldn't you be better visiting your clan?'

And it draws Merrill up short, her throat closing. She twists her foot into the softness of Hawke's rug, looks down at its pretty, swirling colours. 'It's…it's not really a festival. It's actually Arlathvhen this moon. And Marethari didn't tell me,' Merrill finally says, so quietly that she can hardly hear herself. 'I…I keep thinking of how angry they must be with me...to not even tell me. I mean – I, I haven't seen my first clan for over a decade. And I miss Hahren Paivel's stories, and the smell of the trees and…and I was thinking that…maybe…maybe you might understand how I feel. About being alone, I mean. Ever since your mother died –' Hawke's breath suddenly hitches and Merrill speaks even faster, stumbling over her own words because she knows that that was too blunt. 'Sorry, I'm sorry – I don't want to upset you – I just meant…well I feel like I need my family. And I think you need one too. I know they've…had to leave you…in ways. And I know there's…someone, who is your family. But he…he needs time. So maybe, just for now, we could be each other's.'

It's deathly silent, save for the crackling fire, so Merrill chances a glance up. Hawke is just looking at her, with wide, young eyes that Merrill has never seen before. When Hawke came back from the Deep Roads without Carver, she was brittle. When she burnt her mother, she was ice. And when she defeated the Arishok she was exhausted and beaten within an inch of her life. So this – this is something new, and it suddenly occurs to Merrill that Hawke, Hawke whom she has followed for nearly four years, whom she has believed to be strong, and to always know the way, and always have a solution – Hawke is as lost as any of them. And she is alone, because she is their leader, and she absolutely cannot be afraid.

Merrill drops her eyes to the floor again, because it feels like this is a moment of exposure which she shouldn't see. She stays that way until Hawke's arms suddenly wrap around her.

They flop down out on the rug in the end, staring up at the high ceiling, eating berries and giggling until they forget those who should be with them but are not. And when Orana stumbles in, (and immediately retreats), they insist that she joins them, fetching her a glass of Dalish wine. Merrill paints her face with ink in a mock Vallaslin; then she braids Hawke hair. And for hours and hours they talk about nothing and everything, until the last candle has gone out.

When Merrill slowly wakes in the light of the new day, she finds herself tangled in a knotty blanket on the loveseat. Orana is curled up in the armchair; through the cocoon of blankets Merrill can see her small face smudged with the lines the night before. And by the fireplace is Hawke, stretched spread out on the floor with her mabari lying across her feet. Her hair is twisting out of her braid, and her lips are stained with berries, but there's a smile on her face – a real smile, not an empty, or a mocking, or even a polite one, the faces she's wears around most people. And that real smile is beautiful, Merrill thinks, just before she succumbs into the Beyond.

xxx

Life passes, in odd and lurching ways. Merrill paints the outside of her home a bright green colour; it's a pretty sort of green, she thinks, which catches in the light like leaves (no matter how much Varric says it looks like vomit). Sometimes she spends her days just sitting on the dock, trailing her hands through the waters – and finally, finally, she is rewarded, when Isablea sits down next to her one day as if she were never gone. Merrill also gets to carry the flowers for Aveline's wedding and waves her goodbye as she sails to Orlais. Anders keeps working at his clinic, becoming quieter to the point he doesn't even shush Merrill anymore and accepts her help with some of the elven patients. Hawke is swallowed by the Gallows, the arguments of templars and mages, so Merrill sees her less and less.

And Fenris…Fenris is little more than a shadow to them all, present, but empty. Even when he rips his master's throat open, even when his sister flees, he stands solemn, drawn. And far, far away from being free, Merrill thinks, staring at the strange flatness of his green eyes.

Flat, green eyes which spark with something long forgotten when Hawke says 'I'm here, Fenris.'

Xxx

It's not a moment – not a sudden revelation, a discovery she makes. Just small clues, which Merrill pieces together slowly, diligently as the others are all caught in the madness of their lives. They talk too much, too often, constantly – but Merrill knows how to watch, how to learn. So even when they gossip, when they wonder, they do not see the changes like Merrill does.

Delicate, fragile little exchanges; the faint smile on Hawke's face as she brushes ice from Fenris' hair during a snowstorm on Sundermount, or the way Fenris' hands linger on Hawke's skin as he helps her clean out a wound. How Fenris begins to laugh – not harsh, not bitter, but real, small yet honest. How Hawke starts whistling again – a strange, human trait from those first years together, when everyone was younger, free. And those puppy dog eyes are no longer hidden away, dropping to the ground in shame. Now Hawke catches Fenris when he stares at her. She holds his gaze.

So when Isabela slides into the seat beside Merrill one evening in the Hanged Man, golden earrings twinkling in the candlelight, she finds herself acting out a surprise she does not feel. Merrill gasps in all the right places, as Isabela reveals how she walked in on Fenris and Hawke in a…well, intimate, moment together. But when Isabela is distracted, Merrill takes a small sip from her own glass, revelling in slight germ of smug contentedness in her chest. She wonders how anyone, _anyone_, could watch Hawke and Fenris and not know.

So maybe sometimes Merrill misses comments, references; sometimes she sees the happy lies. But at other times…others times she sees those little, perfect moments that other people are too afraid to believe in. She sees hope. And it is beautiful.

* * *

><p><strong>I like the irony of Merrill finding out first. Because of her naivety about people and blood magic, I think it's quite easy to underestimate her. I didn't ever think of myself as a big Merrill fan (SERIOUSLY, LEAVE THE MIRROR ALONE!) until I started writing this, but she's just too much of a sweetheart 3 I didn't plan the 'sleepover', Merrill just sort of turned up with food and I had to let her have her moment. <strong>

**Sincere apologies for the amount of time this took. Went back to university and found I couldn't access any sort of internet – I spent 3 months scrounging off of libraries and cafes! Now that I'm back home, updates should be far more regular **

**An answer to NoMadKa's question from a review: I always imagine Hawke and Fenris to be exceptionally private about their relationship, even if it's an 'open secret'. Their close friends would either mock or judge them mercilessly; their enemies would (and do!) exploit their weakness. That's also what I imagine they're arguing about – Hawke saying that Fenris is too vulnerable living where he does; Fenris refusing to go anywhere else because he has 'his' house – (plus it's all he mages' fault anyway…etc…etc :P) **


	15. Barkspawn

**Disclaimer: Bioware owns all. **

**Smaller, interim POV before a far larger one. Hope you enjoy it. **

**Sometime towards the end of Act 3, in which Hawke has gone off on a mission and left some people behind.**

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><p><em>He<em>'s back. The ghost man. Back again. Back in the room. Door's open. Just a fraction. In he goes. It's dark. Curtain's open, small slip of light. He pats at it. Then keeps going. Wants to see the ghost man.

The ghost is on her bed. It smells like her. She's been gone, gone for some time. Makes him sad. Misses her. She smells like sunshine, and wild grass. She rubs his ears, makes him happy. Harder to make her happy. Sometimes nothing works. Not licking her hand. Not brining her all the exciting things he finds. Not sitting on her feet.

Sometimes she is sad. So sad.

But the ghost man makes her happy. Seems too. The ghost's been around more; with her more. Some nights the ghoststays. Sometimes not. But when it's light, the ghost is always here. Home is starting to have his smell. Spice and warm. And something, almost like a crackling.

The ghost is here now, here when she is not. The small man must have let him in.

The ghost's staying still on the big bed, in the dark, face in a pillow. Her pillow. Eyes closed. He understands; he misses her too. Wants her back. He keens, low. Stretches out to lean his front paws on the bed. A bright, green eye cracks open. Stares at him. He keens again.

The eye blinks. A warm hand, reaches out. Pats his head. Then the hand falls down onto the bed. He grips the sheet slightly. The ghost man breathes in. Once long. Let's his eyes shut.

Doesn't open them. Not even when he gets on the bed. Curls up, twists the sheets. Let's a little sound, a gruff. The ghost man smiles at that. Brings that piece of red on his arm to his face. Touches it softly with his lips.

It is dark and it is still. And it is not her, but it is almost her, and it is all they have now. The ghost man slips to sleep first, still using her pillow. He looks almost happy.

* * *

><p>He is awake. Suddenly. Awake, because there is a noise.<p>

She is back. She is in the doorway of the room. She smells of mud and of rain and of blood. And she is back. She is back with them.

He scrambles off the bed, runs across to her. Jumps up, paws against her. Barks, barks, and licks at her arms. Happy. So very happy. She is back, back with them. Her hands ruffle his ears. She is laughing. Likes it when she laughs. He drops down. Bounces around her feet, wants to catch the happy noise. She is back, she is back, and she is happy.

He runs around the room, excited. His claws scratch on the floor. The ghost man is still half sitting on the bed. Why is he not happy? Why has he not said hello? His face is red and bright. His hair is sticking up. He looks funny.

She is laughing again. And smiling, a small smile. Says something in her strange quiet voice. Her eyebrows are up, her hand on her hip. Points at the bed. The ghost becomes more red. Scratches his neck and stands. But doesn't move.

Still not saying hello. Why hasn't he said hello? He needs help. Runs over to the ghost man, bumps against his knees. Barks, till he moves forward, shuffles. How silly.

She moves faster though. Laughs again, presses his hair down. Puts her arms around him. Lips to his. When she steps back, ghost man is happier. Smiling too, although still red, all the way up to his funny ears. He brushes some dirt away from her face.

Huffs to himself. They are funny. Still not looking at each other properly. Half glances, looking at the floor. Their funny hands are threaded together.

Huffs again and trots from the room. Leaves them to it. He can't do everything.


	16. Bethany

**Wow! A whole year since this story was first published. Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, followed, favourited, etc. It means a great deal for me and my first story. In particular a thank you to everyone who reviews and leaves character suggestions – I'll try to do as many of them as possible. **

**Set during The Last Straw. A rather special POV.**

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><p><em>Bethany. I am Bethany.<em>

It's a slow, sluggish thought. For so long, she has not been Bethany. She simply…was.

But now. Now she is here. And there is someone with her. Somewhere close. Bethany swings her head around but there's no up, no down, only an endlessness which makes her dizzy.

When the woman appears, she does so slowly; blurred at the edges and indistinct, with features like liquid. But they slowly set as the woman continues to move forward and by the time she stops, Bethany can see her more clearly. She's tall, and willowy, and perhaps once was beautiful. But now her face is painted with the hot scarlet of a new wound, cutting across her pretty features like a tear in a rich tapestry.

Such intense eyes though. Bright, burning eyes, which Bethany can feel upon her.

_Are you a demon?_

It rips through the silence, the stillness; a voice tinny, as if from a far greater distance, and tentative, almost afraid, even as the woman straightens and hardens her expression.

Bethany tries to remember. She remembers fear, and hate, and greed, and anger. But that is not all she remembers. She was more than just those sins. She remembers a little house by a river, which always smelt of bread, and elfroot. She remembers laughing. And a man, giant, with a bushy beard. Words he used to say. Old words she doesn't understand, but she says because they feel right.

_My magic will serve that which is best in me, not that which is most base._

And there was a little girl. A girl who seemed so tall at the time. A girl with mad hair and blue eyes, like…like Mother.

Miri.

Miri, who is in front of her. Grown now, with new laugh lines and scars. She's covered in blood, and burnt. But Bethany knows who she is. Her sister.

Miri is crying, slow tears running down her cheeks, where bruises have flowered like dark warnings. _It's you. Isn't it? Finally you. Years and years of scouring the Fade, and you only come to me now. _She stops for a moment, lets in an unsteady, rattling breath. _That's it. I must be dead. _

_No. _Bethany wonders aloud. _Not yet. _But even as she says this, Miri is becoming more solid, the translucency of her presence fading. She is dying, dying before her, and becoming part of the Fade.

Her sister lifts her hand to her head, briefly covering her ruined face. When she pulls it away her eyes are wild, lost. _I can't remember. I can't remember anything from…the before. Why I'm here. _

Bethany knows the answer. She doesn't know how, but the name bursts out of her mouth. _Meredith. _Beyond her sister, crackling in the empty fog, she sees a blonde girl, hiding in the undergrowth as her home burns and the night is coated in the stench of blood. She sees the same face, older and cracked with lyrium veins. She feels the fear and the hate and hears the distorted whispers of the lyrium song.

There are a few beats of silence, as Miri stares at her, blank. Bethany wonders how long she has already been here. Seconds. Minutes. Hours? Then there is a spark of understanding, and slowly her face morphs. _Meredith_, she repeats, barely mouthing the words. _Meredith, in the courtyard. The Circle! _She glances around, desperate. _I have to get back – I have to…there's something I have to do…_

She turns, as if to go back the way she had come, but stops abruptly. The fog has whirled into a tempest, and flickering in its depth they can both make out a memory – a memory of Miri fighting with Meredith. The templar women pulses a festering, erupting red, bathing Miri in an eerie light. She brings down her sword – Miri raises her staff. But it is not enough. Their father's weapon is snapped in half, and the lyrium sword slices across Miri's face. There is a moment, when her sister staggers back, blue eyes dilated. Then the world spins and she crumbles to the ground.

Across a burning courtyard an elf, painted in white lines and blood, screams her name.

Miri steps away from the picture. _The mages _she whispers, facing Bethany once again._ I was supposed to save the mages. And now I'm – _

_Not yet _Bethany repeats. Over her sister's shoulder, she sees the battle conclude. Meredith's fate. How the painted elf fights his way across the courtyard, feral, ruthless, to fling himself beside her sister. _You're not dead yet. You can go back. _

_But I don't want….I _can't _leave you_, Miri mouths, voice thick with tears, and suddenly she is stumbling forward, falling into Bethany's embrace. Bethany strokes her fingers through her short hair, remembers how they used to do this. _I don't want to say goodbye. _

Bethany can't stop watching the elf. He's at Miri's side, trembling fingers pressing against her bloodied, open mouth. Beside them a red-headed woman – Aveline, Bethany thinks, with a painful memory of the world that was – fumbles for a pulse. She raises her head – face hollowed with pain, eyes lost and childlike with hurt – and shakes once.

The elf howls something inhuman and pulls Miri's limp body to his chest.

_They're waiting for you, _Bethany tells her. _They need you. _

Miri buries her face into her shoulder. _I don't want to go back to all the fighting and blood. It's going to be hard, Bethy, so hard. And I'm afraid. I'm tired of trying, and losing, and of being afraid. _

Bethany had forgotten. In the cold of the Fade, nothing like this can be created. The peaches and mabari smell of Miri. The feeling of arms wrapped around her. Love. But she can't be selfish. Can't take her too soon. _Do you remember when we were little girls, _she asks. _And I used to dream of marrying a rich Orlesian man, and having lots of daughters? Dream of what it would be to be loved like that. _

_I wish you could have had that, I wish I could have protected you, _Miri is sobbing into her shoulder now. _You deserved everything, anything you wanted. And I failed you. _

The elf's face is twisted, all the lyrium in his skin singing, as he presses his forehead to Miri's and stares at her glassy eyes. He is weeping, choking out words in a language that Bethany doesn't know but with a plea which she most certainly does.

There is a dwarf, eyes closed and face upturned to the sky as it begins to rain, its own mourning. Miri's blood begins to wash away from her wounds, leaving her as cold and colourless as ice. Aveline doesn't move from the ground, even as her legs are soaked with red. Her brother – _my other half, my second heartbeat_ – is slumped against a pillar nearby, shoulders hunched and face buried in one hand with a grief that cannot be understood, only ever known. Bethany sees his other hand wrapped around a small dagger, and suddenly remembers _fear_. Fear of what he might do. She tries to reach to him, presses herself up against the glass that separates their minds, banging and screaming for him to look at her. But she is caught on her side of the mirror.

She cannot go back. She cannot be Bethany again.

But Miri has time. Miri has a chance.

Bethany looks down at her sister and thinks _I will save you_. Thinks _This is my thank you. This is my goodbye. This is my I love you, and I miss you, and I am so proud of you._

Bethany takes her sister's face between her hands and raises her face so they are level. Blood and tears wet Bethany's fingers but she only smiles. _You have failed no one, Miri. You have given everything you have for other people…even your life. But sometimes terrible things happen in spite of all we do. _The image flickers to their mother, grotesque, butchered, but Bethany cannot accept the image and dispels the horror to talk faster, stronger. _Forgive yourself. Stop punishing yourself for that which is beyond you. _She wipes the dampness from her sister's face, and offers her own watery smile. _There's someone waiting for you Miri. Someone you need to get back to. _Her sister makes to protest, but she pushes on, voice gentle but strong, the irrevocable tide of the moon, of a truth which cannot be denied. _Someone who will make you happy. And oh how you _deserve _to be happy. This is my only wish for you. Not to stay in this limbo with me. That day will come, but not for years. Now it is time to fight, Miri. Time to fight, time to laugh, and time to love. You have something to live for. _

Miri blinks and for a moment Bethany sees a kaleidoscope of her memories. The threads of her world; a pirate woman laughing with a small elven girl around a wooden table, Aveline in a white dress, the dwarf winking roguishly. Carver, with a simple, honest smile.

And the painted elf. A thousand of flashes of his face – enraged, and hurt, and smiling, laughing, vulnerable in sleep, happy and shinning. A thousand flutters of Miri's pulse, skips of her heartbeat. A thousand reasons to live.

_His name is Fenris. _Miri replies to Bethany's unanswered question. Her voice is softer now, bending between one world and the next. Almost to herself, head bowed, eyes fluttering shut, she continues. _I am his; and he is mine._ If _there is a future to be had. _If _I try to reach for it. _Bethany hears the quiet peace is those words, the fullness people spend a lifetime searching for, but never find. A harmony that Miri never imagined would be her own, which she once teased Bethany for dreaming of.

She is almost gone now, a faint pressure against her skin, the memory of a smell in the air, when she glances over her shoulder. Sees her broken body in the Gallows, sees Fenris pressing her cold hand to his face in tragic, broken, reverence. Miri glances back over her shoulder. _I love you, Bethy _she whispers, as her outstretched fingers pass through the fog and dispel the image of her death. _One day we'll be together. _

And Bethany finally allows herself to cry, as Miri disappears between her fingers and she is left holding nothing. And gently, as if falling into a sweet sleep, her own eyes close. She slips, feeling her consciousness close. She tries not to fear the nothing, tries to hold herself to the image of Miri, with her elf, her Fenris. Happy and alive. Maybe with Carver. And maybe her sister and brother will go to Lothering and plant a tree. For mother. For father. For her.

And then they will go back to those who love them, and they will _live_. Gloriously, fully. That is what Bethany wishes, as she breaks apart, as the Fade scatters her.

_You are my light. You are all that remains._

* * *

><p><strong>Hope you've enjoyed the story thus far; I've still got lots of POVs I hope to play with. <strong>


	17. Sebastian

**Disclaimer: Bioware owns all (sadly)**

**A scene during The Last Straw, with flashbacks to the development of a relationship. **

* * *

><p>It takes him a few moments to re-orient himself – to realise that he is staring up at the smoke filled sky, that the ground is unforgiving beneath him; to realise his wrist is bent at an excruciating angle; to realise that Hawke has been hidden by a body and a pair outstretched, lyrium embedded arms.<p>

To realise that his friend has struck at him.

X

_'Which of us would do it? Shall we draw lots?' _

_Even as he says it, his words falter; a question he thought would be considered, accepted, turns stale in the air. Fenris' face twists; his fingers tuck into the fabric on his wrist. 'Uh uh. __You__want to turn them in,_ _you work it out with Hawke.'_

_Behind them, Isabela lets out filthy chuckle. 'Unlike you, Choir-Boy, the elf appreciates the dirty dance and has someone to __tango __with regularly. He's not stupid enough to give that up.' _

_Fenris flushes red, all the way up to his pointy ears, and says nothing as he marches ahead to walk beside Hawke instead. Hawke herself only lets out a low laugh, before reaching out to take his hand. _

_Sebastian does not laugh. Sebastian looks at their locked hands and wonders what this might mean._

X

'Step away from her, or I will rip your throat out.'

It's said simply, voice level, and Sebastian struggles to contain himself . Because this isn't Fenris' loss of control – rather the pinnacle of it. His friend's voice is flat, his heads steady. It's not a declaration in the heat of the moment, in the terror and the anarchy. Fenris is as sure as he's ever seen him. If it is between Sebastian or Hawke, it will be Hawke. Every time. Sebastian wonders how long it has been this way; he wonders when it was that Fenris took his hatred of mages, the torture of his fleeting memories, and everyone he has ever known…and decided he could turn them aside for her.

X

_He's back in the Chantry. This is the fifth time this week Sebastian has caught him in here. But this is the first time Fenris allows him to move towards him; the first time he doesn't neatly rise to his feet and make for the exit, without a word. Still, Sebastian feels as if he is approaching a frightened animal, as he sinks into one of the pews beside his friend. _

'_Are you here for a Blessing, Fenris?' he asks, quiet. The Chantry is hushed with the dying notes of the Chant, smoky, purple incense drifting slowly through the marble pillars and dim glow of the candles. A few people cast glances at their bizarre partnership – the priest and the lyrium ghost – as they leave, but otherwise they are undisturbed._

_Fenris doesn't answer for several minutes; he stays kneeling, eyes closed, head bent. The shadows cast deep lines on his face, aging him. For a sudden moment Sebastian feels as if he were looking upon a very old man, carved in regret and things unsaid. A grief, deeper than tears, a grief that Sebastian himself remembers, seems settled in his very bones. _

_Then sharp green eyes snap open, and a voice so brittle it might break bites out 'I am looking for peace.' _

'_The Maker offers peace to all his children, Fenris,' Sebastian reassures, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. 'Why don't you come and speak with the Grand – ' _

'_Only one person has ever been able to bring me peace,' Fenris interrupts, jerking away from Sebastian's touch. 'And it's not your god, Sebastian. Not your Maker.' _

_Sebastian says nothing. Fenris bends his head to pray once more. _

X

Sebastian staggers to his feet, mouth caught in his throat with the sudden terror that he might lose everything he has ever cared for in one night.

'You will defend her?' his voice cracks, but he shouts louder to cover it, feeling hot tears prick at the corners of his eyes. 'You agree with this decision? To let this, this – _monster_ live?' he cries out. He can't look at the maleificar; not without seeing the red light of the explosion, not without remembering the rumbling of the ground and the sound as if the sky cracking.

He thinks he is about to be sick.

Fenris does not relax his stance; his muscles still tense, strained, even as Hawke reaches out behind him and places a soft hand on her shoulder. 'I trust Hawke,' he replies. His voice is like iron. Unyielding.

X

_It always rains on Sundermount. The storm had broken as they trudged back from the Varterral's cave; Merrill's tears were lost to the downpour and the rolling crackle of thunder, the soft click of the amulets in her small fist. _

_It's tense in the Dalish clearing. The Keeper's left them, but there are still a hundred eyes – and what feels like a hundred arrows – trained on them. It prickles the back of his neck, where his wet hair is pressed to his skin. Beside him Fenris is agitated, slightly bouncing on his feet. There's a gash in his head from the earlier battle, the rain staining his hair cerise. He can't seem to look away from the small tool in Hawke's hands. _

'_Hawke, _please_. Give it to me. I need it – I, I can do this. Stop trying to protect me from myself.' Merrill is as determined as Sebastian has ever seen her. She lost something in that cave, Sebastian thinks; lost something when Pol ran away from her. Her skin is pale, and her face drawn, but whatever she lost hasn't left her weak. It's made her stronger. _

_Hawke's face reveals nothing, as she raises the __Arulin_'_Holm closer to her face. Her fingers are careful, almost reverent, as she turns it over; Sebastian thinks he sees one of the red jewels embedded in the handle reflect in her eye. _

_Merrill steps closer. 'Please. I'm so close. Just a little more magic –' _

_'Blood magic,' Fenris interjects voice like granite. He's started to ground his heel into the dirt. Hawke's head twitches slightly, but she doesn't look at him. _

_'Yes, blood magic,' Merrill replies. 'But I can control it.' _

_'It is against the Maker,' Sebastian says, solemnly. _

_Merrill actually stomps her foot, hands fisting by her side. 'I don't _care_ about your Maker, Sebastian, this is about my history, my people, and I deserve that __Arulin_'_Holm.' She throws out her hand to Hawke. 'Give it to me.' _

_'Don't be stupid,' Fenris grinds out. 'You can never trust a witch.'_

_A single breath, strung out seemingly endlessly. Hawke glances between the two – Merrill's wide eyes, the sharp shake of Fenris' head – and puts her hand over her face. 'Don't make me regret this,' she whispers._

_She gives Merrill the Arulin_'_Holm._

_Fenris immediately explodes in a stream or Arcanum and storms away. Sebastian spares a quick glance at the others – Merrill has drawn a bemused Hawke into an embrace – and takes after his friend, almost certainly he'll aggravate the wrong person and end up riddled with arrows. _

_He finally catches up with him outside the campsite. He is standing, staring down at the red ribbon which has been tied around his wrist for the last few weeks. His entire body is tense, crackling with a rage that even the downpour cannot temper. The crude stiches for his head wound have come undone, and Sebastian is about to offer to fix them when Fenris spits into the dirt. _

_'It's my own fault,' he murmurs, and the words are ice. 'I keep forgetting you can never trust a mage.'_

X

'Trust?' the word explodes out of Sebastian, his fingers knotting in his hair. 'Trust – that's all you have to say!? You know this is wrong – you know he should die. This isn't trust, Fenris, this is blindness. Obedience!'

'That's enough!' Hawke roars, making her way around Fenris. Her hair is coated in ash, her face white, her eyes burning. She has never looked so beautiful, or so deadly; in that moment Sebastian thinks he must hate her. '_No one_ is dying here today! We'll sort out Anders afterwards, but right now our city is burning and we need to save it.'

Sebastian feels it fracture – his control splinters off into a thousand pieces, and a voice he didn't even though he had bursts from him. 'It's too late to save the rot in this city. I am returning to Starkhaven. And I will bring such an army with me on my return, that there will be nothing left in Kirkwall for these maleficarum to rule. And you will not stop me Hawke.'

For a moment, he thinks Fenris will strike him – the lyrium in his skin flares and his eyes go strangely flat – but the moment passes. Instead his friend steps forward and seizes him by the front of his armour. 'Leave then. But know this. Your army will have to cut me down before you get anywhere near her.'

'How can you trust this mage?' Sebastian spits.

'That's not all she is,' Fenris replies, with a conviction that seems to even startle himself. 'She's Hawke. My Hawke.'

X

'_She's a remarkable woman.' _

'_What?' Fenris asks, startled as he looks up from cleaning his sword._

'_Hawke,' Sebastian explains, nodding to where she is negotiating with Hubert about the workers' pay. Although negotiating may be too strong a word; Sebastian has been watching the development partly in interest, but also partly in fear that at any moment Hawke's temper might snap. If there's anything that he's learnt in the last two weeks of working with her, it's that this is a very real possibility._

'_I suppose she is,' Fenris replies shortly, turning back to his weapon. _

'_She's vulgar, and loud, and acts like nothing touches her. But I've never seen her turn away someone in need,' Sebastian continues. The elf says nothing, ducking his head lower. But he's stopped cleaning. 'How long have you been working with her?' Sebastian asks, refusing to give up his questioning. This is the most he's ever conversed with the taciturn elf; the most he's ever acknowledged him. _

_Fenris pauses for a second. 'About three years now,' he finally says. 'Although sometimes it seems so much longer.' _

_Sebastian chuckles. 'I suppose it must wear on you. What she is; what she believes.' It seems the two can do little more than bicker; only a few days ago they had had such a brutal argument (and about something truly ridiculous – mage hats, he thinks) that he was afraid they would come to blows; the Captain of the Guard, Aveline, had wearily told them that this was typical. _

'_Well yes, but –' the elf stops, brow furrowed. 'No, it's not like that. It's –' He cuts off abruptly and lifts his head to watch Hawke. She's drumming her hands against her staff now, a clear sign of her agitation. 'I don't know how to explain,' he finally admits. 'She's just Hawke.' _

'_What does that even mean?' _

'_I don't know.' Fenris smiles. Sebastian's never seen him smile before – seen his teeth bared in battle, an angry smirk of bloodlust, but never something as small and honest as this. 'But I want to find out.'_

_He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't need to. _


	18. Viscount Dumar

**Disclaimer: Bioware owns all**

**POV set in the Hawke estate between Act 1 and Act 2.**

* * *

><p>He finds her outside on the balcony, away from the music, and the polite words, and the measured dancing. She carries a wine glass, although looking at it closely the Dumar can see that she is most certainly drinking gin, and not the red Lady Amell brought up from the wine cellar. Her hair, which had begun the evening wrestled into a despondent bun, has unwound itself, falling down her back untamed and strewn with superfluous black pins. There's also a large tear ripping the back of her evening gown.<p>

It makes him smile.

'Lady Amell,' he says, disturbing her isolation and the flat summer night.

The woman before him tenses, taking the time to swallow the last of her drink before replying, voice conditioned to be mild, 'It's Hawke, actually.' When she turns around there is a flash of recognition in her eyes, and she ducks in the loosest definition of a courtesy imaginable. 'Your Excellency,' she adds, not quite hiding her amusement. Dumar can't shake the sensation that she is laughing at him.

He moves forward, leaning against the balcony and gesturing out into the dark. 'What do you think of your new view, Lady Amell?'

'Hawke,' she replies immediately, before shrugging her shoulders in a manner which puckers the fabric of her corset. 'And it's far grander than Lowtown.'

'That is not much of an answer,' he reminds her, as they look out into the indigo darkness of Hightown. Small pinpricks of light from houses and the soft glow of the moonlight on white marble break up the night. The ivy plants sway in the wind, hushing the stillness of the evening.

Beside him, Hawke sighs in kind. A quick glance reveals her staring, somewhat wistfully, down at her empty glass. 'I'm no wordsmith, your Excellency. I'm not much good at these social functions, with all their secret meanings and double talk. I have a few friends far better skilled at this than I, and quite frankly I prefer it when they do the talking.'

Dumar chuckles. It's hard to ignore the rag-tag group which always seem to follow the Lady Amell. As individuals, they are noticeable. As a collective, you can see (or often hear) them coming from miles off. Colourful, and loud, and seemingly perpetually in contrast, they command attention. 'Missing your company of companions?' he asks. And then, his voice turning sly, 'Or just a young man in particular?' Tonight is the first time he has ever seen her without her elf, and she seems slightly lost for it; he glances around, half expecting the man to step out of the inky shadows.

Hawke let's out a very unladylike snort. 'Why do people always gravitate to the young man in this situation? I'll have you know that I have in fact been stood up by a great number of my friends tonight.'

For a brief moment he imagines her comrades mixing with the people here tonight; he cannot sustain the thought, so bizarre, so distressing it is. 'Yes...but it's often the young man that really matters,' Dumar counters. Hawke is a different person around her elf - but no, that's not exactly it. Hawke is more...Hawke; herself in a purer, more realised form. Right now her wit and sharp tongue, the proud tilt of her head - they're all tempered, coated in a sudden coolness which conflicts with her burning eyes even as they flash in the light. But around the elf, it's as if the lightening under her skin catches.

Dumar remembers an incident, only a month or so ago, when there was such a catastrophic crash in the middle of the Keep that even the he had rushed from his office, running to his balcony to look at the floor below. There was Hawke and her elf, lying amidst the ruins of his favourite mahogany trophy cabinet. He had no idea how they had managed to destroy it, but Hawke was laughing hysterically; the elf, trapped beneath her, was flushed pink up to his ears and frantically hissing for Hawke to move. Yet there was still an undeniable smile creeping across his face. Eventually their friend the Guard Captain arrived, voice booming through the building as they entangled themselves from the cracked wooden panels. Hawke regained control of herself. Although still smirking as she brushed splinters from her robes, she was now contained. But a little trickle of that wildness bubbled back to the surface, as she turned back to wink at her elf when she thought no one was watching.

Back in the present Hawke shoots him a sideways look, eyebrows raised; it's not an acceptance - not quite, but it's certainly not a denial either, and eventually she looks away, spinning her wine glass between her slim fingers.

Dumar glances over his shoulder; through a gap in the heavy, red balcony curtains, he can still the shimmering of bright colours of spinning couples. In particular, the shockingly bright hair of Bran's son is apparent. He cannot repress a little chuckle. 'Although perhaps it's not best night for him to attend. Your mother has assembled your suitors in force.'

At this Hawke really does laugh, throwing her head back as the noise rings like church bells through the empty air. Not refined, or mannered, or charming. Hawke laughs through her whole body, with little control over it all - and more importantly, with no desire _to_ control it. It is a slightly unsettling sound, nothing he is used to hearing.

Unsettling, and maybe a little sad he thinks.

'You know, your Excellency, you're awfully perceptive; we've barely spoken more than once, and already you've seen what my mother refuses to.' The bitterness is her voice belongs to an older, worn warrior, not a beautiful young noble woman; it's an disconcerting marriage, and Dumar supposes no matter what they dress her in, no matter the parties her mother throws, Hawke will remain the former. She's brought her wine glass close to her face once again, staring intently, as if sheer force alone might bring about more gin. 'All my suitors,' she says softly. Then a pause, and in a more deliberate tone, 'and yet, despite my mother's best wishes, your son is not among them.'

Panic flares at the base of his spine, crawling up to his neck in a sudden, icy sweat. He crushes the initial instinct - to bite out _leave my son alone _ - and considers Hawke more cautiously. She does not seem a threat. Her stance is casual, leaning further out on the balcony, and there's no victory in her manner. 'Nor is he likely to be any time soon,' he replies, a stiffness in his voice that he most often uses with the vicious snakes amongst his court. He didn't think such a tone would be necessary with Hawke.

She seems to have noticed his alarm somewhat, and next smile is something softer, almost gentle. 'You've nothing to fear from me, your Excellency. Saemus is an intelligent, thoughtful young man. I very much enjoy speaking with him, and believe him to be very brave for standing by his values against seemingly...indomitable forces. And I mean him no harm. This isn't a political manoeuvre.'

A breath Dumar didn't realise he was holding rushes out of him. He feels dizzy with relief. 'I am glad you do not wish to...undermine his position,' he says, allowing warmth to enter his words once again. 'You are not much like your contemporaries, Lady Amell.'

'Hawke - and on that point we can most certainly agree.'

Silence, as they both consider what this conversation has brought to light. Then she speaks once more, in a small, odd little voice which Dumar cannot help but think of as fragile. 'I should very much hate to be in your position, your Excellency.' He looks to her, and she continues, slowly. 'Trying to hold this city together - the weight, the expectation. It's like trying to knot unravelling threads.' She lifts her head,staring up into the black. It is strangely starless tonight, as the vast infinity stretches out above them. 'Do you ever worry that you'll lose yourself to it all?'

It startles him, the vocalisation of the slipping he has felt for years. 'Do _you_? You already seem quite wrapped up in the concerns of this city.'

She jerks her head back to him, eyes wide. 'Me? Oh no no no. I want no part in this madness. Sometimes I think I'd like to fly away from it all. That's not possible, not with my mother, but I can promise myself that it will never be more than this. This city will not define me, not define how I act, or who I love.'

Dumar wonders if she cannot hear the tragic inevitability of her words.

They settle back into the quiet, into this small fragment of peace. But he has been out here far too long - he can hear the Comtess de Launcet searching for him beyond the balcony curtains. Dumar sighs, then schools his face into the polite mask these events require. 'I am afraid I must leave you now, Lady Amell. Thank you for speaking with me.' She says nothing in reply, and he moves to leave. But he hesitates as his hand brushes against the velvet curtin. He pauses, and then says, quietly and quickly, what must be said. 'Don't think too harshly of your mother, Lady Amell. She is doing as much as any parent ever can do - her best.'

'Seeing any parallels, your Excellency?' Hawke murmurs, not turning around.

Dumar does see them. He understands Leandra Amell, understands why she is pushing noblemen frantically at her daughter, while ignoring the way she looks at the elf, understands her concerns. What do I leave for my child when I am with the Maker? Will they be safe, will they be warm - will they be loved? Will they know the feeling of a child of their own, wrapping small fingers around their hands? Will they be hated or hunted - will they be happy?

Yes, these fears are very familiar to him.

'They are becoming apparent, Lady Amell,' he confesses dryly.

'I'm no lady - my name is Hawke,' she insists, voice almost stern as she finally shifts to face him. Behind her, Kirkwall is a dark mass, suddenly looming and immense in its size, its weight; her pale dress and paler skin throw her image in to sharp relief against the background, a lightness almost swallowed whole in the black. She lifts her chin in a slight challenge.

'I couldn't possibly address you as such - it wouldn't be proper.'

She smiles at that, such a small, feral little smile that Dumar suddenly knows why it is she is so feared. 'How fortunate it is then, Viscount,' she says, sounding out each word distinctly and with great pleasure, 'that I am most decidedly _not _proper.'

* * *

><p><strong>Less FenrisHawke interaction in this, but a POV I think was important for understanding Hawke. Also I like the Hawke and Leandra/Saemus and Viscount comparisons. **

**For POVs, I have a few requests I'm in the process of writing; the Arishok, Bodhan, Donnic and more recently Danarius (thanks for the idea Lyoko Native). Is there anyone else people would like to see?**


	19. Desire

**Disclaimer: Bioware owns all. **  
><strong>An extension of the Night Terrors quest and defeating the Desire demon, drawing inspiration from the Fade storyline in DA:O. Set in Act 2, after Bitter Pill and All that Remains.<strong>

* * *

><p><em>Some say the world will end in fire,<br>Some say in ice.  
>From what I've tasted of desire<br>I hold with those who favor fire._

_~ Robert Frost_

She wants the somnari; wants him, and will have him. Hers hers hers. Been chasing him for so long, pushing in, touching at his soul and tugging. But now she has these new toys and their desperation is so palpable she can hear it through the ragged threads of the Fade. It crackles through her. Makes her strong, wants a taste.

The somnari can wait. She needs to feed.

Their minds are so wonderfully fragile – crack like a nut – split open to reveal hidden channels, dark places. All are open to Desire, and she slips in before most of them have time to notice, before they throw up weak smokescreens, crumbling walls. In them she can almost feel the other sun, not the flat one she knows, not the one that she can contort and break if she wishes – it burns, a glorious sting. Mortal things – like candles, like sudden bright lights. Can be snuffed out any moment. But how brightly they shine in the meantime.

And what secrets they hide – what games they play between one another! Longing glances and words unsaid – wants buried. They bubble beneath the surface, searching for the light, but they're blind, so very blind. Desire reaches into the earth and pulls up those half-formed, those child wishes, from their graves. The mortals break up like upturned roots, cast away from one another, and she dances in the flames.  
>She is Desire. And they are hers.<p>

x

The smoke billows and from the grey five figures form; small faces, smiling faces. The bird whimpers, low, the prey, the trapped. 'Stop this.' They press in, cold hands on her arms, in her hair, whispering half gasps she can't hear. Then louder, screaming 'Stop!' and the illusion shudders, even as the small grey faces smile on.

Four hawkes, waiting.

The fifth hawke is bone white; bloodless. Can't catch her breath – because Desire is taking it, pulling it from her trembling mouth. 'Carver – ' she begins to say, but her voice wavers, a leaf on the wind, lost, lost. Not until the shades move closer, not until she can feel their lyrium breath, does she try again. 'Carver is never happy to see me. And Mother hated these robes.' Growing louder, and pushing back, and the grey figures waver, like water ripples. 'Father would be giving me an earful for nearly falling for a trick like this, and Bethy would be sitting reading, ignoring us all for being loud.'

Then she reaches out – seizes a grey neck and squeezes, until the shade slips away through her fingers. The illusion drifts away, and she slips to her knees, hands knotting her hair.

_I'm only trying to give you what it is you want. Why struggle? Why keep fighting when you could have this peace?_

'You've tried to give me the family that I should want, but it's a false memory,' the bird says. Her voice is strangely empty in this place; bends and drops, cannot find itself. She rises. 'I've had the real thing, and your cheap illusions mean nothing. I am not tempted. And I wish to leave.'

Cheap, cheap. Desire isn't cheap. Desire is rich – worth a life, a million lives. People have fought wars in her name, have spilt hot, red blood. Cities have burnt for her. Desire is not cheap, and she will see. The little bird will see.

She must have been expecting the elf, because her expression doesn't waver when the next shade appears– the hawke is frozen, still holding her heart of ice. Time to burn her. Burn her alive. 'This isn't real either,' she says simply as the elf moves closer, his mouth turned up in the slightest of smiles. His green eyes are warm, like the cast of sunlight on the forest foliage.

_And how would you know? How would you know when you've only ever had a night together?_

It flashes across her face, a sudden crackle of lightening – gone too fast, but Desire has seen. She knows what she says hurts. Time to ground the bird. Clip her wings.

_Would you like him before his memories were taken, sweet bird? Would you like him before his hate, his pain?_

He morphs before her – his hair springs black, no longer hiding his face, and his back straightens. His scarred skin knits together, as if all the sins and darkness of his past are washed away. Untouched. Beautiful. He laughs, and the sound is like spring rain.

'Stop it!' the Hawke snarls; vicious, animal. Strong little thing, pretty little thing. Knows the tricks, feels the lies. Tries to push Desire away, her mind straining. Her power is addictive, for a mortal; Desire drinks it in, the wild pulse, the fluttered heartbeat, the gasping breath.

_Why do you fight it? Look at how he wants you. You've lost so much, sweet bird, why don't you find joy in the arms of another?_

He is suddenly beside her, and before she can push her away he has bent and kisses her neck, reverent. 'Because this isn't my Fenris!' she spits, trying to twist away. He turns his face up to her, childlike in his hurt, his confusion.

_But the Fenris you know isn't yours is he? He doesn't want you; he had you, used you. Took everything you had and left you. Do you remember his hot breath on his neck, sweet bird? Do you remember how he wouldn't even look at you when he tossed you away?_

'It wasn't like that!' It echoes, a thousand harsh cries bursting from her at once. Echoes, echoes, of feelings not said, feelings she has locked away in a box. But Desire has the key and they both know the Hawke is lying to herself.

_Wasn't it? Has he ever apologized sweet bird? Did he ever explain? Or has he just left you, for months and months, wondering what it is you do to drive people away, why it is no one will stay with you._

'What's wrong, Hawke?' the illusion asks. His voice runs like silk. His eyes are wide and hurt, and when the bird looks into them they will be endless and she will be lost. 'Please talk to me.,' he whispers, his hand reaching up to press against her cheek. She stiffens as his skin brushes against her, clenching her eyes shut.

_Would you like to know, sweet bird? Would you like to know what it is to be treasured – to not have to earn approval? For people to stay with you, look after you for once? To finally, _finally_ know, what it is not to have to fight to be loved._

The bird wavers.

x

'Brother.'

He turns away, doesn't look at the elven woman with eyes like his. Clever wolf, strong little wolf. He fights, resists, even though he knows little of this faded place, and his skin is aflame, millions of slight tracks of fire. It is glorious agony and Desire cuts it out of him slowly.

'Brother!'

Jaw clenched, eyes wild – savage. He's breaking, and Desire feels the splinters, the quivering. So close, so close, but he will not turn, will not look at the shade behind him. 'No,' he says; his teeth grind, and he digs his nails into his skin until they form red crescent moons. 'No.'

So ungrateful. Doesn't want his sister. Thinks he can find her himself – doesn't think he needs the help she offers. But there's something else. Something else, something else, something else. Something a million stars away from him, something he believes he can never have. Desire drags the want from him; it's small, malnourished, a craving he hides even from himself, in the recesses of his mind where it has grown black and dusty, abandoned. Neglected.

When she appears she is half translucent, between dreaming and earth. Wearing blue robes, soft blue robes, the colour of the sudden flash before the dawn breaks. His memories scrabble at his mind's surface – she was dressed like this when they first met, when she brought him a book, when her mother died. She is smiling.

_She is the Hawke._

'Fenris,' she says, and it is the sound of a sparking fire. A roaring, trapped; a wildness held. 'Fenris, come here.'

'Demon,' he hisses. Little wolf is on the run, hackles raised. Savage thing – Desire could play with him for years and years. Strong mind too – he could last, he could be such a good little toy. He'll make her work for him though.

His fiction quirks her head. The movement disturbs her plaited hair – it falls like a halo around her face. 'You don't trust me Fenris? After all I've done for you?'

'You have done nothing for me, demon,' he spits, but he doesn't move, is human stone, watching with frantic eyes as she comes closer and closer, her image flickering and becoming stronger. He aches, with something so pure it's almost agony, and Desire wraps herself in the hopeless, desperate twist of his mouth and the weight like a stone in his chest.

_You've never had anything you've wanted, have you little wolf? Never had the one thing you needed, like air, like sunlight. But the Hawke – this was the one thing you could have had – the one thing you did have, and you threw it away. You'd give up anything, everything, to have her for just one more hour, wouldn't you?_

Now she reaches him – pulls him to her – hands upon his back, lips to his neck in an open kiss, feeling his frantic heartbeat erratically stutter under his skin.

_Would you like that hour now?_

Her fingernails scratch, scratch, and blood is drawn – the siren call. He sucks in a harsh breath and struggles in her grip, but moves nowhere. The shade begins to bite at his collarbone, and pricks of red bubble up. His hands reach her hair – to push or to pull is unknown, but he ends up winding his fingers through the thick strands, even as his blood begins to dribble down his skin.

_Pleasure in pain, little wolf. That's all you know. All you've ever known._

His eyes snap open. 'No,' he snarls. And suddenly the wolf strikes – flares suddenly blue, and Desire is trapped in a flash of euphoria from it all – draws his claws through the fiction. She scatters immediately and he stumbles back, eyes wide and chest heaving but determined. 'That wasn't Hawke. Hawke would not hurt me,' he says – a child's mantra, but he seems to grow with the words, seems to become more solid, crowding the pocket Desire has created, rising to press against the ceiling.

Losing him. Smoke wisps trickling through her fingers. Needs to bring him back, fast – fast –

_Would you take her taint if you could? Rip it out of her blood?_

His body jerks – suddenly small, suddenly nothing – and then he shakes his head, steps back but it's not enough, not even slightly because Desire can feel it, feel the sudden yearning he's trying to choke down, the hopeless wish that one day he will take her hand and the lyrium in his skin will not flare up, its scalding agony.

That he'll stop waiting for her bones to bend and her eyes to shrink inwards and her wrists to run red.

This is what you fear, little wolf. The shade reforms and shifts and it is the bird – but broken, damaged, her flesh contorted, her eyes bloodshot. She opens her mouth; a groan, inhuman, slivers out. Her skin begins to grey; it rots before them. The elf flashes in a sudden burst, coloured in rage. It's delicious because beneath the hot anger is a sadness, the terror of something hunted, so profound it paints the world black. Desire shivers at the sweet lyrium sing. _Abomination._

'She will never be that. Not ever!'

_You doubt because you know. You know what mages are. Know that one day your bird will be lost within herself. Nothing you can do will stop it. Never trust a mage._

_Would you like to see her without her magic?_

Then there is his hawke, once again beautiful, beautiful and calm. With a sun branded into her forehead, searing, searing into her smoking skin. 'Fenris,' she says again, but this time it is a hollow bell. Her bright eyes are clouded.  
>He screams and screams and screams, and the sound is delicious.<p>

x

It's a shattering. Desire is so focused on the wolf – he is so close to breaking, so close to dissolving into a million impossible pieces – that when the hawke pierces the veil it is such a penetrating, unexpected pain that she shrieks out in protest. She recovers quickly – throwing screens, ghosts around the hawke.

Not enough though. It's not enough. She bats them away, as if they were nothing, and moves forward. She is a force of nature, aflame, and Desire feels something of herself slipping from the challenge.

'Fenris!' the hawke calls – and her voice is different now. Not empty, not flat, but resonating, like thunder rolling, the sea crashing. The wolf twitches away from the sound – he has curled in on himself, and even as he stands tall, even as the hawke reaches out to him, he has shrunk away from the surface of his body, buried somewhere deeper. His eyes are glassy.

'Fenris, please, listen to me,' her hands stroke over his face. 'Fenris, can you hear me?'

'Not real,' he finally answers – his words a breath in the flat Fade air. 'Just ghosts. Memories.' He is Desire's now, and her fingers tighten around him, begin to crush –

'Fenris!'

And the Hawke erupts, wonderful, immense, lightening flaring up her arms, ozone sparking in her strange, witch eyes. The wolf jerks in her arms, chest stuttering to breathe again; breaking the water's surface, stunned and looking at the hawke as if he had never seen anything so beautiful. 'Hawke –'

'I'm not a perfect Hawke, not the Hawke you might wish for,' she interrupts. 'Look – I'm loud and brass and impulsive – so you know I must be real. You can trust me.'

It's a rip in the world she has crafted; the hawke is tearing it down the middle, unravelling threads. Desire hisses, tries to pull them apart, but the hawke cannot be broken away from the elf, even as she holds him with gentle hands. She is assured, and solid against the shifting shadows, and when she speaks it is as if she cannot feel Desire hammering against the walls of her mind.

'You're a bastard – you're a grump, angry bastard, and sometimes you make me want to smack you in the head. You're stubborn, and proud, and won't let anyone help you. And it's infuriating,_ infuriating_ when you'd rather take crappy mercenary jobs than let me help you.'  
>Voice drops, low, like hushed wind through leaves. The elf if watching her, in rapture, as if this is the first time he has truly seen the sun, as if he cannot believe its power, its heat. 'You hate what I am, and there are times when I wonder how on earth we could ever make anything work between us. I wonder how you could ever be in a relationship with anyone, if your mind can ever battle back from what you've been through, let go of the anger and hurt.<p>

'There are days when I wonder if you want to.'

Shuddering breath, uncertain and drunk with emotion. 'But I care about you. Irrevocably. And I care about all of you. I would change nothing – nothing – because it is you I want, not a shallow, sterile reflection of you without flaws. A demon can offer me nothing here.' Flickers, a dying flame, bending between worlds; a light, disappearing, faded, even as she blinks and whispers. 'I love –'

She is gone. Lost from the game – pain, explosive rocks through Desire – lostlostlostlost – and she screams at the weeping slash in the space she has formed. The hawke is flown, the hawke is free. She feels herself shrink, everything rushing to surround her as she chokes. She is frail.  
>She is not desired.<p>

Silence, as she struggles to reform around the bloody gaps, as the elf continues to blink. Then he suddenly speaks – not the snarls, not the animal she has known, which has trapped and taunted. Now he speaks with a wonder, a wonder as his words shock him, a wonder Desire cannot lie through.

'Magic is a stain on my life. It has taken my past, my freedom...even myself, as I am lost to rage and fear.' He brings his hands to his face – no, not his hands, but his wrist. With a red ribbon which pulses so vividly that Desire has to shield away. This is his tether, the thread which binds him to the other world. And behind its softness is an iron core, which breaks Desire's hands as she tries to shatter it.

'But I've seen you making snowballs for children in summer, and I've seen you heal a beggar with a broken leg. I've seen you send sparks at Cullen's back and tap your staff up all the stairs of the Chantry.

'I've felt it in your kiss, tasted the magic in you. And I was not afraid.'

Losing him; dizzy, weak, Deesire stretches out a tendril, an arm to draw him back. He swats her away without thinking, without seeing. She is crippled.

'And it's hard for me to know, hard for me to put into words; it's against everything I can remember.' His voice is breathless; a child not just seeing the sun for the first time – but one reaching out, holding it close, and knowing that its warmth, its life, will never leave him. 'But your magic is one of the reasons why I...I love you. It's part of who you are, part of how you became ...Marian.

'And I would have you no other way.'

Desire screams; it all ruptures.

* * *

><p><strong>My favourite thing about the Fade storylines are the insights they can give to your companions' minds – and what you mean to them. This was something a little different – and sorry it's not a suggested POV, this idea just got stuck in my head! – and I hope you enjoyed it. Working on some of the requests from last chapter at the moment, and hope to get them up soon.<strong>


	20. Bodahn

**Disclaimer: Bioware owns all**

**The POV of a much beloved DA character. Continuing with the canon established in the chapter 'Camoes' (with the late Warden Amell), and with scenes throughout all three of the acts. Biggest POV so far, because this character sees all!**

_'Fire is never a gentle master'_

~ Proverb; author unknown

* * *

><p>When he first leaves the stone it is night. For nearly an hour he stands, staring up at the blanket of stars. He is reminded of the lyrium veins running through Orzammar's walls, twinkling away in the dull light. But these are different. This is no ceiling, and try as he might he cannot reach out to them, as they pulse like a fragile heartbeat in the sky. They remain burning, a thousand million leagues away, and his eyes are fixated by the gravity of their infinity.<p>

When he finally manages to look away, he is dizzy.

It is not long before he feels the same elation, the same giddy faith again. It is weeks later, when he has almost become accustomed to the watchful gaze of the stars above him; he meets a willowy woman, with strange bright eyes and long hair. A mage. Her name is Solana, and even though her voice is gentle and hushed, her movements thoughtful, conserved, she burns as brightly as those stars, brighter than the campfire which they all crowd around. She is a flame, a beacon, and they all stumble after her, with a hope that they cannot define.

But then she is extinguished. The world does not grow dark – rather it is saved, brought into a new light, but there is an emptiness in her absence.

He and Sandal move on.

When he first sees Hawke, he starts. For a moment it is Solana again, lighting up the Hightown market with a sudden, vivid flash of colour. Then he blinks, and the differences become more apparent; this girl burns like wildfire, voice loud and sharp eyes as she glances around. From across the court she sees him staring at her, and her lip curls in a feral grin.

Varric, working on the mission accounts nearby, leans in to explain. _Her name is Hawke – she's a Fereldan refuge, an _apostate_. I'm thinking of approaching her for the expedition. _Bodahn encourages him. She's not Solana, he can see that now, but she reminds him of her. Desperately so. Against all sense, or caution, he already feels that she can be trusted. That she will mark the landscape of his life.

x

'Bodahn!'

His name echoes strangely through the rock tunnels, as if it senses that it is back where it belongs, back in its home. He turns around to see Hawke, clambering her way down to him. Her face is tight and her eyes hard; her hair streaked with dirt. She has none of the joviality that she wears so easily when topside. Though he supposes it is unsurprising that she hates the Deep Roots. A bird should never be trapped somewhere without sun.

'Bodahn, I heard your son's gone missing.'

Bodahn fights the rising panic scratching at his throat and nods. 'That's right, messere. He went somewhere down that tunnel –'

Hawke has already moved on before he has finished speaking, gesturing for her companions to follow her. 'I'll bring him back. No one is being left down here.'

When she returns hours later – eyes tied and arm bloodied, but Sandal at her side – Bodahn thinks that even as the darkness seeks to engulf her, she has never shone brighter.

x

It is nearly two years before Bodahn is properly introduced to Fenris. He'd seen him before – there was a time when it seemed he would have come on the expedition as well – but has never had the chance to speak to the elf. He was always half distant, curled away from whatever mess Hawke had dragged them into, and Bodahn never felt that he was seeking conversation.

And there he is, unchanged, as Hawke walks him through the Amell Estate.

He's looking at her in exactly the same way he used to – eyebrow raised, the slight twitch around his eye as if he's contemplating dashing his head against the wall. Bodahn prays that he represses the urge. It took him weeks to scrub the floors this clean.

'So what do you think?' Hawke asks, arms outstretched. She twirls – once, twice – and nearly careens into the fireplace before the elf shoots forward and pulls her upright by the fabric of her sleeve. He falls back immediately, arm snapping to his side, but Hawke ignores his embarrassment and continues flitting about the room, chattering away. 'It's taken us months to clear out all the shit those slavers left behind. And mother insisted that it be restored exactly as it was before.' She rolls her eyes, but there's no real irritation in her voice and Bodahn smiles absently at her theatrics as he begins to collect the leaves she brought in with her.

'It looks nicer than my home,' is the measured reply. Bodahn wonders how the elf manages to spend so much time with her, when they are so different. If Hawke is a fire, burning bright and hot, seemingly out of control, her friend seems glacial. He is beautiful in his alienness, his detachment, but in a way that reminds Bodahn of harshness, of the Frostback Mountains, and keeps him away. Hawke is his antithesis – she draws people in with her warmth and her wildness, almost irrevocably. He supposes Hawke must see something else – that his coolness is a cover, just a sheet of ice over something much deeper.

'Everything's nicer than you house,' Hawke replies tartly, before catching sight of Bodahn. 'Including the occupants.' She smiles. 'Have you ever met Bodahn, Fenris?'

x

The sound is catastrophic; a sudden metallic cacophony from the kitchen which pierces the silence of the house. Bodahn jumps out of his skin, and is already racing down the stairs before he has made any conscious thought. _By the Maker, Sandal, not the salamanders again. Maker, not the salamanders. _But a sudden, strained curse brings him to an abrupt halt outside of the kitchen. For a moment he pauses, mind struggling to place the voice.

'Master Fenris?' Bodahn finally inquires, pushing open the kitchen door. 'Master Fenris is that you?'

'Bodahn!'

Not Sandal – not Sandal at all. It _is_ the tattooed elf, standing in the middle of the kitchen and surrounded by Hawke's crockery and holding a spatula. It's such a mismatched image that Bodahn blinks once – then a second time – to make sure he isn't seeing things. 'Master Fenris, what are you doing here?'

'Nothing!' he barks out, voice sharp and too loud. Then he pauses, glancing around the dismay of the kitchen, realising he cannot claim total innocence here. 'Can you help me?' he asks dejectedly, his shoulders hunched as if this is a painful admission.

'Of course messere,' Bodahn replies. '...But...er...help you with what messere?'

Fenris gestures at a bizarre compilation of ingredients assembled on the kitchen counter. 'I was...going to make Hawke something. To say thank you. For my first read- for the combat lesson she is giving me later today. But I...I had trouble with...um...everything.'

Bodahn represses the urge to laugh, because he doesn't think that will be very well received. 'Of course, I'm happy to help. Mistress Hawke is out right now, but she'll be back in a few hours. We can have something nice waiting for her,' he says, bending to pick up the scattered equipment. 'Usually Mistress Hawke she stays in bed for most of the morning, until Mistress Amell or Captain Aveline come and drag her out. But my boy and I have found that the best way to wake her is the smell of puff pastries. Mighty proud of them, I am,' Bodahn declares, beginning to furrow through a cupboard. 'They need fruit though. Her favourite, bl –'

'Blackberries.' Fenris says, then flushes further when Bodahn turns back to look at him. 'She was eating them a few days ago on the Wounded Coast,' he adds in explanation, ducking his head.

Bodahn lets out a deep laugh then continues searching for ingredients. 'Yes, blackberries, Messere. A special treat in Kirkwall – you have to go looking for them, because no one eats them here and the merchant don't think they're worth a fig. But they're everywhere in Fereldan. Mistress Amell says they were her favourite as a child.'

'I can't imagine her…young,' the elf confesses, kneeling beside Bodahn to help him draw things from the cupboard. There's a softness to his voice which Bodahn wants to ask about, but he realises it is not his place.

'Neither could I, messere. But you listen to enough stories, and you believe anything,' Bodahn replies warmly, triumphantly retreating from the cupboard with the sugar. 'Do you know Mistress Hawke wasn't born in Fereldan? Her parents travelled through Nevarra instead of crossing the Waking Sea – that's where Mistress Hawke spent her infancy. Then they lived outside of Cumberland for a few months. They didn't enter Fereldan until Lady Amell was pregnant once more.' Bodahn glances over his shoulder at Fenris. 'That's where they found her mabari you know. It was alone, just waiting on the border – 'as if he knew we were coming' Messere Hawke always says. Well, it followed her for miles. Lady Amell says that her husband laughed at that – thought it was a sign that they should stay. And what better way to settle into to Fereldan than with our own mabari?'

He talks for hours, strangely comfortable with the strange elf who says nothing and occasionally helps him with the baking (and reaching for things stored in high places). The puffs are cooling on the side when the estate door is suddenly flung open, and a loud voice disturbs their easy camaraderie. 'Sorry – sorry, I'm late! As if blood spiders and frigging dragons weren't enough, the bone pit's crawling with undead now too.'

Hawke dumps her coat and staff on the hall floor – they'll be mud everywhere, Bodahn thinks with a sigh – and grins at them with pleasant surprise as she enters the kitchen. 'I see Bodahn's been keeping you company – hope he's not been saying anything too bad.'

'Not at all,' Fenris replies. 'We made you something though.'

Her eyes light up as she catches sight of the puffs, and immediately bites into the largest. 'Maker, you two, these are delicious!' She slumps down into the kitchen chair, wearing a childlike expression of peace and a streak of sugar across her cheek. 'You certainly know the way to a girl's heart.'

Fenris smiles. It's small and perfect, Bodahn thinks, and the first real glance behind the ice.

x

And then Orana is telling him about a late night visit, and Lady Amell is insisting nobody ever speaks about it, and Hawke is coming home later and later, more bruised and bloodied, with a smile that stretches too tights and flickers like the dying embers of a forgotten hearth. And the reading lessons stop, and the house becomes cold, and mother and daughter are always fighting. And when Bodahn faces his son, with his confused, honest eyes, there is nothing he can say to explain.

x

Bodahn can't turn away from the fire, from the slow, hypnotic twist and the crackling sparks of the charcoal. He's not sure how long he has been here – hours, he supposes. But even as he feels a white sting at the back of his eyes, even as the storm outside seems to threaten to blow the estate apart, he stands, half transfixed, his bones stiff with a chill he cannot warm.

By the fireplace lie Hawke's gauntlets. Bodahn has spent hours scrubbing at them, until half the skin of his numb fingers is raw. But to no avail; the blood stains remain, accusing, and somehow Bodahn can smell the iron musk of it on himself, a taint that makes him feel half faint. So now he stands, dropping white flowers into the fire and staring vacantly as they burn into ash.

Only a sudden crash wrenches him from his task. He turns to find the atrium door thrown open, and standing against the murky outside is Master Fenris. Eyes hooded, soaked to the bone. Bodahn remembers once thinking that Fenris was cold, Hawke's opposite in all things. But now he is a man burning.

Neither say anything; Bodahn points up to Hawke's room and turns back to his duty. He can just about hear the elf making his way up the stairs – quiet as he may be, the whisper of feet is still too loud in the hurt, shocked hush of the house.

The lilies pop in the heat of the fire, curling in on themselves and futilely turning away from the consuming touch of the flames. At last Bodahn closes his eyes from the hot light as they are all engulfed.

x

Hawke swears viciously as she stumbles into the wall. 'I told you I couldn't bloody make it on my own.'

Master Anders chuckles as steadies her, slowly guiding her over to a chair. 'Well last week you told me you wouldn't be able to stand on your own. You're showing clear signs of progress.'

'Shove your progress,' she snaps back, blowing her hair from her face. 'I haven't gone outside for weeks. I'm going to go insane soon.'

'Soon?' Anders echoes softly, ignoring the fierce look that Hawke shoots him. 'I know it's difficult. I know it's frustrating' – Hawke exhales nosily at that – 'but your leg will never get better if you push it too hard.'

'That's what I keep telling her, Master Anders,' Bodahn says, as he brings them a pot of tea. 'But she won't listen to me.'

'You two are ganging up on me,' Hawke complains as she collapses into a chair. She hisses slightly as she straightens her leg, and then when she jerks it too suddenly lets another furious stream of swearing – which Bodahn is convinced ends with 'sodding Qunari'.

Bodahn can't help but smile at her. She may be grumpy, and irritable, but she's alive and roaring, something which he once believed to be lost forever. _Extinguished, just like Solana. _He hadn't let Orana or Sandal see her when she was recovering in the Darktown clinic. Bodahn went alone, descending into the dark. She did not belong underground – she was barely a flicker of her old self, straining to keep shining in the midst of the darkness. It's a memory which still haunts him.

But now she is here, and he could not be more grateful to Master Anders for saving her.

'Is there anything else I can do for you two?' Bodahn asks.

Hawke shakes her head, but Anders smiles at him. He's tired, with bags under his eyes and hair a little limp. He's been practically living at the Estate for the last few weeks, ensuring Hawke's recovery, and Bodahn has come to know him quite well. He's seems a very nice young man.

And he's quite clearly infatuated with the Mistress.

'We'll be fine thank you, Bodahn. And I need to get back to my clinic soon.' He turns around and bends next to Hawke's chair, looking into her eyes. 'As long as you promise me that you'll rest that leg. I don't want you to end up hurting yourself.'

'What will you do if I don't?' she asks, voice teasing.

Bodahn leaves room, Anders' rare laugh filling the study behind him – and half shouts in sudden shock as he nearly walks into Fenris.

'Messere – what – what are you doing here?' It's less courteous than it should be, because surprise is still thudding in his chest at the sight of the elf and the small basket he is carrying.

He fails to reply. For several moments he is silent, staring at something over his head. Bodahn glances back; Anders and Hawke are still laughing together. Their fingers touch slightly on the arm of her chair.

Fenris shakes his head, not looking away. His lips begin to move, as if speaking, but there's no sound until he lets out an abrupt little cough. 'I'm sorry to bother you, Bodahn. I wanted to give something to Hawke but clearly – clearly she is busy. Could you give this to her please?' And he pushes the little basket into Bodahn's hands, before striding to the door.

Bodahn struggles to hold the gift, stunned for a moment, before hurrying after the elf. 'Master Fenris – wait! There's no need to leave. Mistress Hawke always has time for you.'

Fenris stops suddenly. He is stiff, and as he turns back around the movement is a stunted, shuddering jerk, as if ice is moving through his veins. He shakes his head, eyes wide but unseeing as he falls back half a step. 'Once perhaps. Not now.'

And Bodahn thinks he sees – well, a shattering in Messere Fenris' eyes, as he finally leaves the Estate.

Only later does Bodahn look into the basket. It is filled with hand-picked blackberries.

x

The mistress has been in distress all day and the house is still buzzing with her nervous energy. It makes Bodahn's hands twitch as he moves from room to room, straightening scattered books and realigning disrupted furniture. Slotting these things gives him some kind of peace. From in front of the fire, the mabari watches him dolefully, as if innocent of the mess. Bodahn shoots his a sharp look and wags a stump finger at him. 'Don't you think I'm not on to you' he warns. 'Now I'll have no more mess, you understand?'

The dog stares at him for a moment, before snorting and turning around. Bodahn knows he has been dismissed, and there is little point trying to argue; the mabari is far too clever for its own good and has Sandal wrapped around his little finger.

Bodahn wonders if the mabari feels it as well – the strained agitation which the home seems to have taken on. The dog has always been so aware of Hawke's feelings, and she certainly seems to be going through a mountain of them today. Earlier she had disappeared into the cellar, and for so long that Bodahn actually followed her into the darkness to check on her. He had found her standing in the middle of the cold room, staring down two different bottles in her hands. 'Bodahn!' she had gasped, with a strange relief in her usually assured voice. 'Thank the Maker – do you know anything about wine?'

'I'm afraid not, mistress,' he had replied. 'We dwarves, we prefer ale. It has a stronger kick.'

For a moment she worried at her lower lip, eyeing the bottles uncertainly, before declaring 'Screw it!' and rushing past him to leave the cellar with both, shouting out her thanks as she disappeared. Bodahn had been confused, but humans rarely made much sense to him and he supposed this was just another quirk he would eventually become used too.

It isn't until much later, when there is a staccato knock at the door that Bodahn realises why Hawke is behaving so strangely. Standing at the doorway is Messere Fenris. Bodahn hasn't seen him for months, perhaps a year – not since the day when he left the berries behind. He must hesitate too long, because the elf begins to shift on the doorstep. 'Is this a poor time? I can come back later.'

'No.' Suddenly Hawke is at his side, opening the door further and placing a gentle hand on Bodahn's shoulder. 'No, it's fine. Come in, please.'

Messere Fenris remains still for a moment, his eyes almost wary, before stepping over the threshold. Hawke offers him a smile, a small and dear one which Bodahn has only seen a few times before. In it are the reflections of the wild girl he first met – of the fire when drew them all to her. A fire he thought was gone – but clearly only dimmed, not lost. 'This way,' she says, beginning to move towards the library. 'And thank you Bodahn!' she calls out, as an afterthought.

He is stunned for a moment, and tries to occupy himself by cleaning the still disorientated estate. But eventually the sound of Hawke's laugh, a rarity once taken for granted, draws him closer to the library. Peaking through the door he can just about make their image out; sitting around a small table, with a pile of books and paper in front of them.

'You're still holding the quill as if you were afraid of it,' Hawke chuckles, reclined back in her chair.

The elf throws his hands up in the air. 'It is absolutely ridiculous as a writing instrument. Why is there a feather coming out of it?'

A slight creak startles Bodahn, who glances around to see Orana curled up at the other side of the door. Her eyes are wide, and she is beaming, listening as intensely as he is.

'There's nothing wrong with my pen, you grumpy bastard. Come here' she replies, reaching out. 'Slow. And firm.' Hawke whispers, and their hands begin to move in smooth strokes.

'Perfect.' Mistress whispers when has finished, her expression tender in a way Bodahn knows to be precious, as she gazes at him. His slowly moves his head and for a few heartbeats they are caught, looking into one another's eyes.

'Fenris…' her voice is low. Quiet.

There is a pause –

– and then the screech of Master Fenris' chair as he hurriedly moves to the other side of the room. Orana and Bodahn both press back against the wall, to avoid detection. 'Don't. Don't push me Hawke.'

'I'm not –' mistress chokes back her loud retort. Bodahn hears her inhale, long and slow, before she speaks again. 'I'm not pushing you, Fenris. At least, I'm not trying too. I – I miss you. You rarely come out with us anymore, I'm constantly being dragged to the Keep to try and sort out the mess the Quanri left behind – I just –.' Silence, awkward and prickly. 'I just want you to be my friend again. I need you.'

Bodahn wrings his hands at the flatness of her voice. Mistress rarely becomes truly angry; instead she becomes quiet and closed off. After Lady Amell passed she wandered around the house for days, touching nothing, saying nothing, barely moving the air as she haunted her own home. Blown around her own life, like ashes in the wind. It was many weeks before she began to speak the way she did before, her voice strong and certain. Bodahn shares a worried glance with Orana, knowing that she understands. Mistress is the strongest woman they know. But even the greatest have their limits.

Bodahn can't stop the flash of Solona's face – beautiful, but broken Solona - at Redcliffe Castle before the very last push.

A board creaks in the other room. 'I am trying,' the elf says eventually. There is an apology in his voice, but also a resignation. 'But, perhaps it would be better if I keep my distance for some time. Perhaps we both need space.'

The sound of a book slamming onto the table startles both Bodahn and Orana, who looks as if she barely quells a scared whimper. Bodahn offers her a sympathetic gaze, and nearly misses what mistress I saying: ' – I mean dammit Fenris –I don't know what to do anymore, how to make this right. Do you remember how close we were before – well, before? I understand if you don't feel the same –'

'I have to go.' The elf's interruption is immediate and sharp. 'Thank you for the lesson.'

'Fenris!' Mistress yells in surprise. 'Fenris!' she repeats, as he barrels out of the library and practically sprints for the door, entirely missing both the elf and the dwarf who press themselves further into the dark walls in sudden terror at discovery.

The door slams shut behind Fenris and the sound echoes out across the house. It rings and rings and rings in Bodahn's ears, until all he can hear is the rush of blood.

It is finally broken by the muffled thud of mistress slumping over her desk. A daring glance around the door reveals her shoulders to be still, but tensed and strained. She will not cry, not even in her own home. Bodahn almost wishes she would.

Orana brings her herbal tea. The marbari sits on her feet. Sandal does something to the enchantment soup that makes it taste a little less like feet than normal.

Bodahn can only offer her something which his own mother told him. 'Fire is never a gentle master.'

She blinks at him, uncertain. 'I don't understand,' she admits.

He takes her hand and pats it once with his own. 'It's who you are Mistress...Miri. It's who you _are_. You live life like a fire, feeling everything, burning brilliant and all-consuming. And that means that the pain you face will hurt deeper and will scar. But you will feel so much more; you will love so much more. It's not an easy life, but it's a beautiful one, one truly lived. We'd never change you for anything.'

Bodahn is stunned when she wraps her arms around him, pulling him into a sudden and tight embrace. He is even more stunned when he feels something wet drop onto his shoulder. 'Thank you,' she says, her voice small and odd.

He curves his arms around her shoulders. 'You're welcome, Mistress.'

x

The light shining through his curtain slowly draws Bodahn into consciousness. Groggily, he sits up in bed and then pulls himself to his feet. The illness which has left him bedridden for the last week seems to have cleared, and the potential for the day seems stretched out before him. Orana had taken Sandal to the market in the morning, and the house is strangely still as he makes his way through it.

So he is surprised when he enters the kitchen to find none other but Fenris, calmly and assuredly...baking. 'Oh, good morning Bodahn. Are you feeling better?'

Bodahn's mind stutters slightly, before functioning again. 'Er, yes, thank you, Master Fenris. How are you today?'

He doesn't look up from his mixing bowl, but smiles slightly to himself. 'Well thank you, Bodahn. I'm just making puff pastries for Hawke. Would you like some?'

'No, no, I'm fine thank you. Do you need some assistance though? I can fetch the blackberries.' Slowly he moves to one of the cupboards, pulling open the draw, as his mind scrambles to read the situation.

'Oh, they're not in there anymore. Hawke put it in the back cupboard. Behind the cinnamon,' Fenris says, rolling out the pastry.

Bodahn stops dead and slowly looks over his shoulder. Master Fenris continues pottering about the kitchen, not noticing anything amiss. But to Bodahn – everything has shifted. He thinks back – two, maybe three years ago; remembers showing Fenris how to make puff pastries, explaining Hawke's past. But now he moves around the room with peace, with a confidence Bodahn has never seen before.

He belongs.

The sudden realization is interrupted by a voice ringing through the estate. 'Do I smell blackberry puffs? No need to butter me up, Fen, I'm already what you'd call a sure thing – '

And Mistress Hawke rounds the corner, as loud and as impossible as ever.

'Oh – oh! Bodahn! I didn't know you were up…'

And then mistress blushes. It's not a lot – not obvious. A small blot of pink in her cheeks, but it's more than Bodahn has ever seen from her before. Trying to pull her exposed shoulder back into her robe, brushing the wild hair from her face.

He'd suspected. She had changed in the last few weeks – begun to laugh, and dance – speak as she used to, unrestrained and honest, and full of a ridiculous and unrepentant hope. She had bought a pretty dress for Orana, and taken Sandal out for walks with Barkspawn. And when he first fell ill, worrying about if she would be alright running the estate on her own, she had smiled and taken his hand.

'I've always been fine on my own, Bodahn. I've never needed anyone to look after me. But now I'm starting to realise that I don't have to live that way. No one does.'

Bodahn smiles. He glances between Fenris, who has stopped baking, his face shockingly red, and Hawke, tugging her nightgown lower. 'No worry. I won't keep you two any longer.' He backs out of the kitchen, fighting against the broad smile which is trying to spread across his face. 'I'm just going to do some work in the front garden.'

A few hours later, as Bodahn trims the ivy vines growing out of the side of the house, they appear, fresh faced and fully dressed. Both still seem a little happiness, but neither can hide their wide smiles.

'I'm sorry to leave you Bodahn, especially when you've only just recovered, but I've got to head over to the Gallows for the latest crisis. Apparently Meredith is ready to throttle Orsino. Sounds serious this time – they're even threatening to go to the Chantry and get Elthina,' Hawke grumbles, dragging a hand down her face in exasperation. 'We'll see you later.'

They begin the wall down to the Docks, and Bodahn watches as they do. It's not long between they end the fiction of being distant. Only a few strides on and Hawke stretches out, catching Fenris' hand in her own. He pulls her closer, until their shoulders bump together, and that's how they make their way through the streets. The light catches on the marble of Hightown's steps, and they are suddenly lost to a blinding white glare, like a sun, and Bodahn winces away from its strength.

Looking back into the cool shadows of the house, his gaze falls to the puffs half eaten on the counter. And suddenly, he feels the guilt about his impending departure to Orlais lift from his chest, so fast he is breathless. Hawke will be safe; Hawke will be cared for now. After years and years of losing things, of surviving on broken smiles and empty struggles, she is loved. She won't end up like Solana; she won't be snuffed out. She will continue to burn, more vivid than ever.

And watching their heads inclined together disappear from view, Bodahn thinks that this must be a new beginning. And that Hawke can finally be happy.

* * *

><p><strong>Just to clarify, this piece ends with Hawke and Fenris about to begin 'The Last Straw'. Hope you enjoyed it. <strong>


	21. Arishok

**Disclaimer: Bioware owns all**

**Sorry for the slight delay in this update - university exams took over my life. But - thankfully - summer is now here, and updates will be more regular. An often requested POV here. **

* * *

><p>He considers their leader first. She favours her left leg; her right is slightly stiff. A sustained injury. To the knee, he suspects. A weakness. But her vision is sharp. It flicks up to the Ashaad stationed on the roof. She has a tight grip on the wooden staff in her hand. Bas Saarebas then. When she speaks, her voice is steady. She looks him in the eye - very steady indeed. Her manner is almost insolent. But her posture is not. Tense, feet distributing her weight, bending slightly to move fast if necessary. She respects that here she is weak.<p>

The others with her are largely unexceptional. An elven girl. A twig. A human boy who looks a great deal like the leader (but without her sharp mind; he thinks his sword will keep him safe).

There is another elf, however. He speaks the Qun. He is interesting.

The leader thinks so too. She looks back as he speaks the words of the Qun- a muted surprise. Considers his words carefully. Acts on them.

They get their coin. And they leave.

x

'Ketojan is dead.'

She says it as if the words means something. Her right arm is hanging at her side, bloody. Her face is bruised. Those with her are not much better. 'He died to keep to your precious Qun.'

'The saarebas did his duty. I would expect no less.'

She is angry. Uncontrolled. Foolish. She steps forward, climbs half the steps towards him. 'The arvaard you sent after him is dead too.' Her voice is low, but heavy with threat. 'I didn't kill that karataam. But I killed the arvaard. I roasted him alive. He burnt because of me.' Vicious little words. Her companions exchange looks. They are afraid. Afraid in a way their leader is not. 'Are you going to sow my mouth shut too?'

The elf shoots up after her. Grabs her by the arm and hauls her back down several steps. She resists, but he is stronger, and he leans forward to whisper something in her ear.

She breaks his grip. But sighs. When she next speaks it is measured. 'I think this was set up by a Mother of the Chantry. You'll need to watch out for her.'

'I have little concern for those who scurry in the shadows,' he replies. 'It is good to know how much they fear me. How much you all fear me.'

She makes as if to reply again, face twisted in frustration. But a glance at her elven companion seems to silence her.

'Fine then,' she says. It is a harsh bite, her teeth gritted. Her hands are clenched as she leaves. The elf's hands twitch too, as if to reach over for hers.

Yet he does not.

x

'So the gaatlock is a decoy?'

Her name is Hawke.

It fits. It is solid. And blunt. He wonders if she sees. Wonders if she understands how she is defined by it. She enters his camp, confused by his message and recoiling from what is. But she is the Hawke. It is not just a name, as she dismisses it. That is her role. To remain above all others. To wait. Then strike. Vicious. She is above the other bas who stream through this cesspool of a city. She is greater. She is stronger.

The Hawke is older than when they first met. She has started to take up the responsibilities before her. She carries them well. When he extend his courtesy she nods.

She brings with her the elf. Again and again. She asks his advice. This is a complication.

x

One day she with arrives with the elf girl, a dwarf and the Guard Captain. She has never come to him without the learned elf as her interpreter before. He makes note, but does not comment.

Their conversation is abrupt. Hawke has been among the bas too long. She does not understand, she remains blind to what is so clear. She leaves. She is frustrated. And she has not understood his warning.

It is apparent that she has grown dependent on that which is not bound. On the presence of the elf at her side. The Qun understands the unit, not the outcast, is powerful, is great. But the Hawke has not embraced the Qun. She has no brothers to call upon. She cannot depend on those not bound by blood, by oath.

Hawke has let herself fall. She is driven by devotion, by affection. She has forgotten that which is greater than herself and her petty a hawke needs to remain apart. But now she has been torn down. Torn down upon an unstable ground.

Now she is weak.

It is a pity. But it is also inevitable.

x

The Guard Captain and the Hawke enter together. The dwarf and the elf are left barred out. Hawke's elf glares at him through the panels of the gate. His mouth is pulled in a wild grimace.

The Guard Captain is brave. And dutiful. But a fool. She is blind. She speaks and speaks, but does not hear the real truth hidden in her own words.

Behind her the Hawke is quiet. Unusual. Her posture seems relaxed, but the grip on her staff is iron. She knows how this will end. She knows there is only one way that this can end. She looks into his eyes and confesses that she too would not give up the converts. The Captain turns to glare at her, furious, but she is unrepentant. She will never lie. She will not deny herself.

The Hawke reacts first when the attack begins. Her staff surges up to knock a spear before it strikes the Captain. She stumbles back at the force of the blow and then they are in full retreat. One falls. Then another. And another. But the Captain and the Hawke remain, the first's face shocked but determined, the second's blank with purpose.

Then a spear pierces her calf. She howls and stumbles against the wall. In the distance, the elf throws himself against the gate, but soon he and his companion are overwhelmed and there is only time to fight.

The Hawke meets his eyes before she leaves. A thick globule of blood trails down her forehead. She is breathing hard. But she is calm.

She knew this would happen. And she is prepared.

He would be disappointed if she were anything else. She disappears after her friend. But now, their battle is assured.

x

When she had entered the keep he had known for certain. Basalit-an. She is worthy of respect.

He will give her a good death.

Then the elf walks in behind her. It is an infuriating sight. Hawke's weakness in physical being. He is watching the limp in her step - from her wounded ankle - his eyes sharp and fierce. She briefly glances back at him as they enter the room. He nods at her and when she turns around it is as if she has grown taller.

A hawke should not care. A hawke should not look back.

She is the same with her dathrasi thief friend. Tainted. Too long influenced by her corruption.

There is only one path, only one means by which to satisfy the Qun. He goes to take the thief away. And the Hawke steps between them.

The Arishok thinks of the Hawke which could have been. Which should have been. The Hawke which was washed away in the filth, in the selfish ignorance of this city. But before him stands a wasted hawke, one who challenges the Qun and will be dealt with accordingly.

When he invokes their duel the other bas fall about one another, with gasps and chattering whispers. The thief breaks into a shout, but she is pulled away by the dwarf. His lies, his illusions, are a low murmur in the panic. Even the elf, the cool, impassive elf, is bone white.

But she is not afraid. She accepts and moves forward.

The elf storms across to stand in her way, attempting to seize her wrist. Hawke sidesteps. Her face is stone. It says stand down.

He doesn't. More evidence of the Hawke's weakness.

The elf's shoulders are raised. There is a muscle leaping in jaw and his eyes are feral. It reminds the Arishok of the very last moment before a convert touches the qamek. Pointless and uncontrollable feeling, longing, struggling in vain against the role for which one created. How much better it could all be. How it could be perfected.

Acceptance is the only path.

In the end Hawke looks to the Guard Captain. After a long moment the Captain moves forward and clamps down on the elf's shoulders to bodily haul him away. He throws her off, but finally shifts to stand aside. His fingers flex for his weapon.

'If you die, I shall not forgive you.' His eyes are pinched. His skin has become grey. Bloodless. Fury rattles through him and the words are ice.

Hawke wavers. 'Fenris -'

She is distracted too long. It is enough for him to charge. Hawke jerks away, but too late. The edge of his blade catches her shoulder. First blood.

The bas gasp; the elf stiffens.

It is weakness. And she will lose.


	22. Varania

**Disclaimer: Bioware owns all**

The free bird thinks of another breeze

and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees

and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn

and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams

his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream

his wings are clipped and his feet are tied

so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings

with a fearful trill

of things unknown

but longed for still

and his tune is heard

on the distant hill

for the caged bird

sings of freedom.

~ Maya Angelou

When he steps into the tavern her breath catches in her throat, in a sudden, choking burst of what once was. She thinks it must be his eyes that tug at her memories the most. They are wide, green, like a forest after a storm - their mother's eyes. It is enough that Varania can almost feel the Tevinter sun on her back, the sea salt in the air; see the bright flowers of the gardens they used to play in. She remembers looking into those eyes, innocent, guileless, as her brother showed her a bird he had rescued. Look, Vari. Isn't she beautiful? Can we keep her?

What is before her now is a distortion, a parody of the brother she knew. His hair is ivory, like the expensive china Master Arihman used to collect. His armour is finely crafted, Tevinter in origin but worn over time, its grey spikes broken up by a strange soft ribbon around his wrist. He's slouching, guarded, in a way that their mother never would have allowed; she always used to chide him, say that the wooden greatsword he lumbered around would bend his back. And of course, there are the lines of lyrium that snake their way about his skin, cutting into his bronze flesh and marking forever the changes that have come over him.

In all the ways that matter, he is not her brother. He is tense, and fierce, and there is a viciousness lurking beneath his quiet civility. Leto was loud, and alive, buzzing with an energy he almost seemed to glean merely from sun and fresh air, dashing about the master's gardens and bird houses. She remembers being a small girl in awe of him, and his boundless wonder and animation, swinging around his sword and proclaiming he would be the greatest warrior Thedas had ever seen.

And how here he is. A great warrior - the best in Kirkwall, she's heard.

But he does not know her. And truly...Varania does not know him.

He's not her brother any more; he hasn't been for over a decade. She fights to remember that, as she watches Fenris from her peripheral hiding spot. He is stalking around the tavern's perimeter, eyes sharp and anxious as they search. This is not the boy who used to climb - and fall out of - trees to chase birds. He saved them from cats. He would bring those with broken wings to their mother. But this...this is someone else. This a slave, a -

Fenris glances back at the woman with him, and the word bends.

Leto. He's there, hidden in that expression, straining away underneath the surface and emerging only as he looks at his companion. The woman - the Champion, Varania supposes from the descriptions, the stories, she's heard - doesn't notice Fenris looking at her, but that doesn't seem to matter to him. Everything about him has shifted. His stance is still defensive, still harsh, but re-orientated to the Champion and her measured steps. Yet the greatest changes flicker across his face, as sudden, as bright as moonbeams. The angles of his jaw have softened, and through the impassive ice is a warmth, pulling at the corner of his mouth and soothing years from the creases of his forehead, the tightness around his eyes. From a man who was crafted of stone, he now seems as weightless as light itself. He looks like a man who could love.

Varania supposes that no other person could recognise the extent of the changes that have come over him - no one else could appreciate the small shifts to his face and what they mean. Because in looking at the Champion, Fenris is gone. And someone else takes his place.

Her brother.

Leto used to look that way. When she broke her leg; when he tried to stop the men beating their mother; when he strode out into that fighting pit, wooden sword strapped to his back and the promise of freedom on his lips. Leto who had laughed and loved, and would do anything to protect those whom he cared for.

Her brother - still chasing birds. Running along the hard ground, running after a hawke.

Varania closes her eyes, a panic descending on her so swiftly that she thinks she may pass out. Her eyes prick with something which may be tears, and it is this abrupt and ridiculous realization which breaks the iron grip of terror from her neck. She takes in a few long breaths, but the air in the tavern is foul and she half gags on it. When she finally opens her eyes, the Fenris has returned; he's looked away from the woman, and is once again hard lines and coolness. She must forget that which she saw - that which she imagined for half a heartbeat. He is no longer her brother. He is merely a slave, a criminal, a traitor. He is one who does not know his place.

And Variana will do what she must.

xxx

There is a moment when he first advances, coloured in the blood of the man Varania believed as a child to be immortal, that a fear, primal - animal - causes the words to burst out from her. 'Please, make him stop!'

Inexplicably, beyond the horror she can think of little but a sudden, overwhelming memory. Of finding Leto, barely older than three summers, amongst the shattered remains of their master's pot of honey. His dark hair stuck up in stiff peaks, his smile sticky and perfect. How could that boy, that beautiful boy, become the monster before her? How could she grow to fear him?

The brother with no memories; the sister with nothing but them. If there is a Maker, surely he has the cruellest sense of irony.

The corner of his mouth quivers; his eyes are strangely glassy. 'I would have given you everything.' The words are pulled from him, in a half noise he barely sees to be aware he is making.

Varania believes him. Believes it with every part of her, in each nerve tingling with fear, in the bead of sweat slipping down her face. For a moment, a wavering moment, she allows herself to wonder. Wonder what would have been if she had tried to run to Kirkwall, without Danarius, to find her brother.

But it would have been a search - a sacrifice of her tentative position, a provocation of a magister's rage - in vain. For she would not have found the brother she lost. She knows that, as he steps forward and raises a fist, which casts his sombre, tired face in an unearthly glow. In that moment, Varania hates him, hates him, because he's not Leto - her brother is gone, buried - and this bastard means nothing to her, and she will look him in the eye as he pulls her heart from her chest -

'Fenris - stop!' The Champion steps between them. There is a moment, a flickering, when Varania thinks that he will simply continue, and kill them both. Then he blinks. Once, so quickly, looking so very fragile, and like Leto again, not this Fenris myth which has been created and has stolen her brother's face. Then his expression is stone once more, and he is snarling like his namesake.

'Get out of the way, Hawke,' he says; his voice is a low rumble, a terrible thing, like breaking thunder, and Varania presses back against the blood spattered tavern walls. The wetness seeps through the thin material of her dress. She can feel it on her skin.

'No Fenris,' the Champion repeats, but her tone is softer. She steps towards him, her bloodied hands raised in surrender. 'Please, listen to me, for just a moment.'

He flinches away from her approach. There is blood in his white hair, pressing it against his face and over his burning eyes like broad brushes of paint. He used to have such beautiful black hair, just like their mother. Varania remembers how she would stroke through it at night, to help him sleep. Now her fingers only tremble.

'Why should I? She was ready to have me killed!'

Maker, it's such a ridiculous thing, but Varania bites down on her lip until it splits to fight the sob rising in her throat. She's can't remember the last time she cried - that's a lie, she can, back at Magister Arihman's, with hands everywhere, holding, nails biting into her skin and the awful echo of laughter so loud she can't even hear herself scream - and she wouldn't start here. She doesn't want them to think she's weeping for her life like a child. But Maker...it's the voice. His voice. It was only just starting to break when he first left them, fluttering between the breathy, high rush of a child and a deeper rumble. Now it's so rough, and jagged, uncurling like darkness, and she wonders whether it's from age or the life he has led.

She wonders if her voice sounds different.

She wishes he could tell her.

'I understand, Fenris - Fenris, look at me,' the Champion pleads, as he turns his face away from them both. 'Listen.' Varania thinks it must be the strength of her words, not the compassion, which finally twists Fenris' head back around, reluctance screaming through every inch of him. 'Fenris, there is a difference between all the people in the world who hurt you and stab you in the back, all the people that we've hunted down and killed. The difference is that this is your sister. Your family -'

'This isn't your sister, Hawke!' It explodes out of him suddenly, and he surges forward to glare down at her. 'This isn't your Bethany. This is a witch, a snake, and you should stop with your pointless words and let me rip her heart out.'

Silence. The Champion sways slightly, as if faint. Her boot scraps slightly into the red soaked floorboards, as if to steady herself...and then she rises, like an ocean, building on her brief blow to strike back, devastating and all consuming. 'I know this isn't Bethy, Fenris. She means nothing to me, and if she were anyone else I would put her in the ground for her betrayal without a second thought.' She's a few inches shorter than Fenris, but she seems to grow with each word, until they are both a hundred feet tall and Varania is nothing but an ant to them 'But you cannot kill the past, cannot simply bury it, like you're trying to do to your sister. You can only let it go, stop allowing it to define you. Accept that we cannot change or control it.' Her voice drops low, so low that none of their other companions can hear, and Varania can only do so as her words seem to beat in the same erratic pattern as her stuttering heart. 'You're not just trying to kill her because of what she did. You're trying to kill her so that it doesn't hurt anymore. Trying to cut out of you the past you cannot reclaim.' The Champion steps forward, so that she is now closer to Fenris than Varania herself, face proud and upturned to look into his storming eyes. And then, in a small voice at odds with the strength of her stance, she whispers, 'I am begging you. Don't kill her. You are more than your past.'

Varania doesn't understand what is happening here - doesn't understand who or what they are talking about, but she understands anger, and pain, as it rips through the woman in front of her. And she sees its answer in Fenris. Who wears his rage as a cloak, a disguise for his regret, an emotion Varania understands even better. They say nothing, caught in a moment which none of them can understand, for what seems like hours. Varania is faint, exhausted from her terror, and her hate; she sways and leans slightly against the wall for support. Wooden splinters press into fingernails.

'Get out!'

It is a feral snarl that crackles through the air without warning, and Fenris doesn't turns to her when he barks it out. Doesn't even step away from the Champion, their faces still inches apart.

Doesn't even look at Varania as she half stumbles, so lightheaded that the world seems to twist before her, towards the door. She trips on an uneven floorboard and collapses onto an upturned table; the sudden blow to her stomach has her seeing spots.

And still he does not look.

Her humiliation...her worthlessness. It is at its zenith. And Varania has never wanted to hurt her brother more.

Still half bent over the table, she turns her head to hiss the word at his back. Words which she never thought she would say, for they have no purpose but to hurt. They are the darkest part of her mind, and now they paint the air black. 'You said you didn't ask for this, but that's not true.' He doesn't move - doesn't even flinch, and Varania speaks faster, desperate for him to feel the same agony, the same pain, which she has had to endure. 'You...you wanted it - you competed for it. When you won you used the boon to have mother and I freed.'

Now he jerks and spins to face her, as if Danarius were still playing him like a puppet. His eyes are wide - almost like a child - and his voice is ragged. Pleading. 'Why are you telling me this?'

'Freedom was no boon,' Varania spits, staggering to her feet. The world still tilts, but she stands firm. Hate has rooted her. 'I look on you now, and I think you received the better end of her bargain.'

Not because he has found a home here, and Varania has nothing before her but running. Not because he has power and strength, while her own powers are neglected and erratic, bringing whispering demons into every dark passage of her life. Not because his mind is wiped of the horrors they saw as children, while Varania can barely pass through the night without remembering the beaten face of their mother, or the dead eyes of the father Leto never had the chance to know.

No. It is because when is all said and done, when their pasts lie before them in a bloody defeated battlefield, the carnage dividing them irrevocably...this man, this Fenris, has someone who slips her hand into his. Someone who can uplift him from the life he has led, and make him Leto once more.

And Varania has no one.

xxx

It is one of the other dockworkers in Cumberland who tells her about Kirkwall. Who tells her about the sky burning and the streets running red. About the disappearance of the Hawke. And the Wolf.

For a moment, Varania considers. Considers saying 'That's my brother.'

But that isn't really the truth, so she doesn't.

That night she pauses as she passes by the Chantry. And for the first time in more than a decade - since her mother died - she goes inside and lights a candle.

She prays. Prays for her sins, and her regrets, and her mother. She prays for Leto, who only exists for the Champion now; and for Fenris, in repentance for the darkness she helped cast in the short shadow of his life. She prays for her memories, and those beautiful warm days spent in the garden with her brother, none of them knowing the broken path they would tread. Such perfect days which will remain forever untouched in the golden recesses of her mind.

She wishes she could go back and warn her past self of all the mistakes, all the lies she will believe and all the parts of her soul, her body, which she will offer up just for a meal or a warm bed. She wishes she could go back to lying on the warm grass, staring up at the overwhelming blue sky, dreaming of being able to float up into it.

And she wishes - more than anything in the world - that she could take her brother by the hand and confess a small truth, a truth will always be true, even though she will never have the chance to say it to him.

It's almost too easy to imagine, to dream. To believe herself, her adult self, to be walking through the estate, feet bare in the soil and wind pulling at her hair. She finds her brother beneath a tree; building a nest, laying down seed. He looks up and her.

And smiles.

She sits beside him and takes his small hand in hers. 'I'm sorry.'

He blinks at her with slow, confused eyes. 'You never say sorry, Vari.'

It's true. She never has. Not to him. But he's never said it to her either. Maker, she'd forgotten how stubborn they both were, how awful they could be. The fights they had - vicious. Maybe there were always that way. Maybe they've always been at war.

But even as she thinks it Varania knows it's a lie to try and ease her conscience. Because there's a world of difference between the fighting of the children and what she did.

'I'm sorry because I am a terrible sister. Not just because of Kirkwall. Because I let you go with that monster in the first place.' She confesses what he cannot understand, but he is mute as her confession tumbles out of her in a breathless rush. 'Because I didn't protest enough, and I watched you, my little brother, walk into that fighting pit. You smiled, and you were so brave - but you were a child, and it was my job to keep you safe.

'I've met who you become. And he's furious, and vicious, and terrifying. He has power that would have all these bastards here running scared, but it rules over him, not the other way around.' The next words she stutters over, because they will always be difficult, will always rip old wounds no matter how often she says them. The anger, the bitterness, bites in her veins like poison. 'And he doesn't know me. And he doesn't know mother.'

Her words hang in the air; and through the pall of regret, Varania dreams. Of things unknown

but longed for still; of all that may have been; of what can happen, what can change, in this shard of her imagination.

Leto is not deterred. 'You're not bad. You're the best sister I've ever had, Vari.' And he reaches up to brush her hair back from her face. His little face is scattered with freckles. 'Am I a hero when I'm older?' he asks. His words whistle slightly through the gap between his small, front teeth. Varania remembers now. He'd cracked his face whilst cleaning one of the marble foundations. Their mother had been terrified, and spent the night scrubbing away at the small blood stain long after it had disappeared.

She nods in answer to his question, thinking back to the stories about the Battle for the Keep. 'Yes Leto,' she says softly, pushing his hair back from his forehead. 'You've saved a great number of people from a terrible fate.'

His eyes light up and he rocks forward on his crossed knees. 'Who'd I save them from, Vari?'

'Can't tell you,' she replies. 'I can't give away all the surprises.' The words - the mock teasing - make her half retch. They are cruel, but she cannot say the truth. Cannot make him live it before his time.

Cannot relive it again herself.

'Do you know what is the most important thing about who you will be Leto?' she blurts out, struggling to break away from the vision of white hair and skin alight. 'The absolute, most important thing?'

He nods, clambering into her lap. He's all long, spindly limbs, and he wraps them around her neck. She breathes in the smell of him; dirt and air, and cinnamon. Not ozone. Not blood. 'You will be a wolf, Leto. And wolves are angry. And they are hunted. They are not understood.'

Leto squirms in her hold, but she pulls him tighter, hands brushing through his hair. 'But he is so loved, Leto. Loved more than I can possibly say with words. He is the earth, and the stars, and the sun for someone, and she will protect her Fenris far better than I ever protected you.

'It was be horrific. And it will break you. But here's the secret, the little secret that Danarius and all the other magisters will never understand.' She imagines the sweet delusion one last time, pulling him back to brush his wild hair from his face and looking into green eyes, wholly and unquestionably trusting. She remembers how it felt when she had all the answers, and he loved her more than anything else he had ever known. 'Someone loves you. And that means no matter what happens, no matter what you face, you're going to be fine, little brother. You're going to be just fine.'

And sitting in that quiet Chantry hall, completely and irrevocably alone as her imagination drains away, Varania finally, finally, cries.

* * *

><p><strong>As I was writing this, the focus almost inevitably shifted to the relationship of brother and sister. It felt like it was a story that needed to be told, and I hope you've enjoyed it.<strong>


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